On truth; a systematic inquiry

THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA

PRESENTED BY

PROF. CHARLES A. KOFOID AND

MRS. PRUDENCE W. KOFOID

ON TRUTH

n
O N TRUf H

r

A SYSTEMATIC INQUIRY

ST. GEORGE MIVART

n
Ph.D., M.D., F.R.S.

LONDON
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., i, PATERNOSTER SQUARE

1S89

(The rights of triinslation and of reproduction are reserved.)

TO HIS GRACE

THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND, K.G.,
president of the royal institution.

My dear Lord Duke,

La dedicating, by kind permission, this work to
your Grace, I desire to give expression to feelings of both esteem
and gratitude.

I desire to express my esteem for one whose beneficent career
has long practically exemplified the precepts of sound philosophy,
and my gratitude for that kindness which has enabled me to
enjoy the charm of a retreat so considerately selected in harm.ony
with my tastes and wishes.

With much respect, I am.
My dear Lord Duke,

Yours most sincerely,

ST. GEORGE MIVART.

HURSTCOTE, ChILWORTH,

Whitsunday, May 20, 1888.

rvi375603

PREFACE.

In the following pages the author has sought to place at
the disposal of his readers as brief and plain an account
as he could render of the results at which he has arrived
in a life's pursuit of truth. He has purposely avoided con-
troversy as much as possible ; not even having referred to
world-renowned philosophers, whose systems have, never-
theless, much occupied his thoughts, and even for a time
gained his assent. He has acted thus partly because con-
troversies which relate to the most important questions
treated of here have been dealt with by him in other
works, but mainly because he is convinced that it is not
by negative criticism, but by synthetic construction alone,
that the most useful scientific work can now be done.
The author presents this volume to the public partly in
the hope that his effort may make some slight contribution
towards such building up of a solid temple of truth, but
with a much stronger wish that it may impel other men,
better gifted or more advantageously circumstanced, to
further develop and more effectively express the truths
herein presented.

PAGE

CONTENTS.

SECTION I.

FUNDAMENTAL FACTS AND PRINCIPLES.

CHAPTER

I. Evidence and Certainty .. .. ••• •■• 3

^11. Self-knowledge... ... ... ••• ••• ^5

^ III. Memory ... ... •. ■■■ ••• ••• ^9

IV. Home Truths. ... ... .■• ••• ••• 3^

V. Reasoning ... ... ••• •■ ••• •• 53

VI. Assertions AND Beliefs ... ... ... ... 6o

SECTION II.

IDEALISM.

VII. Idealism and Realism ... ... ■•. .•■ 7i

VIII. Idealism and Science ... ... ... ■• 79

IX. The Key of the Position ... ... ... ... 87

^' X. Objections ... ... ... .. •• 97

XI. Idealism Old and New ... ... .. ... 130

SECTION III.

MAN.

Structure of the Body... ... ... ... i45

The Activities of the Body ... ... ... 154

Our Lower Mental Powers ... ... ... 178

Our Higher Mental Powers ... ... 203

Language ... ... ... .■• •■■ 224

Perceptions of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty ... 237

The Will ... ... ... ... ••• 262

Mankind ... ... ... ... ••• •■• 276

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

XX.

XXT.

XXII.

'XXIII.

XXIV.

SECTION IV.
THE WORLD.

Inorganic Nature ...

Organic Nature— Plants and Animals..

The Functions of Organisms

The Ani.mal Faculties ..

The External Relations of Organisms

FAGE
299

342
367

s^

SECTION V.
''//' SCIENCE.

XXV. Nature
N XXVI. A First Cause
X XXVII. Evolution ...

383
450
500

SECTION I.

FUNDAMENTAL FACTS AND PRINCIPLES.

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Evidence and Certainty ... ... ... 3

II. Self-knowledge... ... ... ... 15

III. Memory ... ... ... ... ... 29

IV. Home Truths ... ... ... ... 38

V. Reasoning ... ... ... ... ... '^53

VI. Assertions and Beliefs ... ... ... 60

>C.

ON TRUTH.

CHAPTER I.

EVIDENCE AND CERTAINTY.

Certainty exists, and universal doubt is unreasonable. There must be
ultimate truths which do not need proof. The ground on which
we believe them is their self-evidence, and no better criterion is
. possible.

The pursuit of truth and of truths — Need of certainty — Two mental
associations — Certainty exists — Unhealthy and irrational scepti-
cism— Reflex mental acts — Some views as to what truths are
most indisputable — This inquiry refers to the grounds and criterion
of beliefs, not to their origins — Ultimate truths cannot be proved —
Self -evidence is the criteriott of truth — General, or abstract, neces-
sary truths — Three orders of fundamental certainty — Is a better
criterion tha7t evidetice possible ? — The task of the iriquirer after
truth.

Most of us are eager for truth. The popularity of
science and the spread of criticism show it. The spirit
of inquiry was possibly as keen three hundred years ago,
though, perhaps, mainly prompted by ideas of advantage
in this world or the next. Now, there are multitudes
who seek truth * for its own sake, apart from any advan-
tage it may bring with it. A passionate devotion to
truth is the well-founded boast of our scientific worthies,
who are above all things anxious not " to believe a lie."

* A special inquiry as to our perception of truth, will be made in our
seventeenth chapter.

ox TRUTH.

Yet this popular pursuit of truth is mainly an indirect
pursuit of it. It is not, after all, so much a pursuit of
"truth" as a pursuit of "truths." It is not the endea-
vour to discover what is most certain and fundamental in
all knowledge, but an endeavour to become acquainted
with facts and laws of different branches of knowledge.
Tht^rtun There is one very important difference between these two
VtrJlkf^ quests : a student of any branch of science must, if he
would succeed, follow the footsteps of its masters and, at
least provisionally, abide by their dicta. It is true that no
bonds are imposed except such as originate from, and are
justifiable by, observation and deduction. It is true that
a questioning attitude is emphatically the scientific atti-
tude, and that in the bracing air of free inquiry physical
science has thriven wonderfully, and history has become a
pursuit very much more attractive and fruitful of results
than ever before. Nevertheless it is impossible for the
student of science to dispense with the observations and
reasonings of his contemporaries and predecessors, and he
will risk failure if he rashly refuses to allow them their
proper weight, or to accept some of them, at first, simply

(upon authority. In the pursuit of truth itself, it is other-
wise. The inquirer, in this case, can only appeal to, and
must abide by the declarations of, his own reason. He
must clearly see the truth attending every step he takes,
from the ver)- first. Such direct inquiry concerning truth,
though it is not and is not likely to become a popular pur-
suit, yet counts many more followers amongst us to-day
than it did half a century ago. One cause of this increase,
is the advance of physical science with its eager spirit of
inquiry. Questions more and more fundamental concerning
each branch of physical science naturally lead to questions
which underlie all physical science. This impulse has been
keenly felt by many of our own scientific leaders, who have
largely promoted inquiry of this fundamental kind. Now,
modesty, no less than caution, is a characteristic of the
true man of science. Naturall)^, then, our scientific leaders
have sought, and sought with success, to impress upon their
followers a modest estimate of their power of knowing, and
the fact that it has very definite limits.

EVIDENCE AND CERTAINTY. 5

But every one is aware how apt men are, in trying to

avoid one extreme, to fall into an opposite one. Doubt

and scepticism, which are not only legitimate but necessary

; in science, are indeed doubly so in the inquiry concern-

f ing truth itself. Therein we should assent to nothing

which is not clearly and evidently true to our minds.

\ Nevertheless there may be exaggeration in this as in

other things. It is possible to be so strongly impressed

by the existence and legitimacy of doubt, as to forget

the existence and legitimacy of certainty. Yet it is Needo/

o ■> ■! certainty.

manifest that life could not be carried on as it is, if we
had not practical certainty as to its ordinary concerns.
We may say more than this ; for with regard to many
matters which are not of ordinary concern, we have now
greater certainty than our forefathers had. Side by side 1
with an increasing scepticism, there has run along an I
increasing certainty. Thus with respect to the world we/
live in, most educated men are now certain as to its daily
and annual revolutions, as also that its crust is largely
composed of sedimentary rocks, containing remains of
animals and plants more or less different from those
which now live. No one, indeed, can deny that we may
rely with absolute confidence and entire certainty upon
a variety of such assertions. Science constantly advances,
but its advance would be impossible if we could not, by
observations and inferences, become so certain of facts pre-
viously doubtful, as to be able to make them starting-points
for fresh observations and inferences. Nevertheless the
certainty which most men feel about such matters cannot,
from the nature of the case, be due to their own observa-
tions, but must depend upon their confidence in the generally
received opinions of experts. The degree of their confi-
dence also, will vary according to circumstances, as is the
case with respect to their trust in human testimony gene-
rally. A reasonable man who has never been to Berlin
and who never saw Napoleon III., will yet be absolutely
certain as to the present existence of that city and the past
existence of that man. He may feel very differently, how-
ever, with respect to some remote antarctic land or ancient
Egyptian king. In spite, then, of increased and increasing

ON TRUTH.

certainty as to matters scientifically established, it is none
the less true that, as a general rule, things which are very
distant, or which happened a long time ago, are known to
us only in round-about ways, and we feel more or less
uncertainty about them. On the other hand, our convic-
tions concerning the things about us at any given moment
can be tested by our senses, and we are practically certain
/^rtw «.«./* regarding them. Now, if we have had several times two
I '"*'*'"'' feelings or ideas in close conjunction, thenceforth when one
of these comes to be freshly experienced, the other tends
to arise spontaneously in the mind, which is said to have
Q "associated" the two together. Thus it comes about that
ff* we associate a feeling of " uncertainty " with statements
^ / about what is remote, and a feeling of "certainty" with
f/ what concerns the present. The value of this mental
association we will consider later on. A second mental ]
association which men commonly form is that between I
Y^ " what is especially true " and what is " demonstrable by i
^V^ reasoning." This association is due to the fact that most \
of our knowledge is gained indirectly and by inference.
No truths are brought more strikingly home to our minds
than those mathematical ones demonstrated by Euclid.
We commonly ask for the "proof" of any proposition we
are called on to believe, and we feel a special certainty
about statements which we know we can prove by un-
answerable reasoning. Thus it is many men have, rightly
or wrongly, a feeling that "to believe anything which j
cannot be proved," is "to believe blindly."

It is very important to note these two facts of asso-
ciation with respect to our feelings of certainty. As to
matters of everyday life, as distinguished from scientific
truths, though we therein generally act on reasonable
Certainty probabilities, yet certainty meets us at every turn. Thus
we are absolutely certain that a door must be either shut
or open ; that if having been open it is now shut, some
person or thing must have shut it; that we cannot both
spend our money and keep it ; that we feel warm or sad if
we have either of those feelings ; that we are the same
individuals in the afternoon as we were in the morning ;
that if every man of a company has a red coat, then each

EVIDENCE AND CERTAINTY. 7

man must have one ; that half a loaf is better than no
bread ; that England is an island ; and that if we throw
down a quantity of printer's type it will not so fall as to
form a set of verses. Some readers may be impatient at
meeting with assertions seemingly as trivial as obviously
true. But it is needful to recall to mind the fact that abso-
lute and complete certainty does really exist with respect
to such obvious truths, however little we may be given to
advert to the fact. It is now especially needful to make these
simple truths clear, on account of the before-mentioned
/ present danger of an exaggerated scepticism/^ Blind dis-
I belief is as fatal to science as blind belief, and it is possible
I for men to get themselves into a diseased condition of general Unhealthy
' distrust and uncertainty. Experience proves that they h-rationai
may bring themselves to doubt or deny the plainest truths, '"^^"■'""■
the evidence of their senses, the reality of truth or virtue,
or even their own existence. It is well, then, distinctly to
recognize that universal doubt is sceptjcism. riiji^,mad,>as the
following observations may serve to show. If a man doubts
whether there is such a thing as rational speech, or whether
words can be used twice over by any two people in the same
sense, then plainly we cannot profitably argue with him.
But if, on account of his very absurdity, we cannot refute )
him, it is no less plain that he cannot defend his scepticism. /
Were he to attempt to do so, then he would show, by that
very attempt, that he really had confidence in reason and
in language, however he might verbally deny it. Universal
scepticism is foolish, because it refutes itself. If a sceptic
says, " Nothing is certain," he thereby asserts the certainty
of uncertainty. He makes an affirmation which, if true,
absolutely contradicts both him and his system. But a
man who affirms what the system he professes to adopt
forbids him to affirm, and who declares that he believes
what he also declares to be unbelievable, can hardly com-
plain if he is called foolish. No system can be true, and no
> reasoning can be valid, which inevitably ends in absurdity.
Such scepticism, then, cannot be the mark of an exception-
ally intellectual mind, but of an exceptionally foolish one.
It also follows that every position which necessarily leads
to such scepticism must itself be essentially unreasonable.

8 ON TRUTH.

Rf/iex Having, then, recognized the existence of certainty and |

menta acts. ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^^ things are certain, the next step in the |

pursuit of truth would seem to be an endeavour to discover 1
"what things are especially true," or "what are those
propositions the certainty of which is most indisputable,
and which are evidently and supremely true ? " In an
inquiry concerning what our mind tells us about its own
judgments, there is a special difficulty, arising from our
organization. For the mind applies itself easily enough to
external objects, but has much greater difficulty in directing
its gaze in upon itself. We are spontaneously impelled to
form judgments about external things, or "direct judg-
ments," but we are not so impelled to reflect on our
judgments, compare them one with another, and judge
about them. These reflections of the mind inwards on
itself are called "reflex mental acts," and the judgments
which the so reflecting mind makes about its own judg-
ments are "reflex judgments." Such difficulty as may be
experienced in making these reflections must, however, be
got over by any one who would successfully engage in the
quest for " truth ; " nor will there be much difficulty in
getting over it. For this faculty, like our other faculties,
may be strengthened by exercise, and all that is ordinarily
needed to perfect it is patient ^perseverance.
Some views Now, some Very estimable persons will tell us that the
Tru'ihsare cspccially truc and most indisputable propositions, are
putJu."' those which can be shown by reasoning to be necessarily
true. Others will declare them to be propositions the
truth of which has not been impressed upon us by habit
or by any association of ideas, but is what they call " a
genuine testimony of consciousness," spontaneously arising
in the mind of an infant as its intelligence dawns. Some
good persons are persuaded that we must select as the
truest propositions, those which are not gained by expe-
rience and are called a priori, or which have been
implanted in our nature by a benevolent and all-wise
Creator. There are, on the other hand, very able writers
who affirm that we cannot pick out any especially indis-
putable propositions at all, because the whole of our ideas
are simply due to mental association, and are the result

EVIDENCE AND CERTAINTY. 9

\ of the experiences and prejudices not only of countless
'generations of mankind, but of an indefinite number of
non-human ancestors also.

But one and the same answer must be made to all
these different representations. The matters they refer to
are very interesting, but the problem we have to solve
is one entirely independent of them. It has nothing to do
with questions about the origin of our judgments, or with 1
reasonings about their truth. Indeed, no proposition capable /
of proof can possibly be one the certainty of which is
fundamental. For in order to prove anything by reason
ing, we must show that it necessarily follows as a conse-
quence from other truths on the truth of which its own
truth depends. Such other truths must therefore be
deemed more indisputable than the thing they are called
in to prove. Evidently we cannot prove everything. How-j
ever long may be our arguments, we must at last come to
ultimate statements which must be taken for granted, as
we must take for granted the validity of the process of
reasoning itself If we had to prove either the validity of
that process or such ultimate statements, then either we
must argue in a circle, or our process of proof must go on
for ever without coming to a conclusion. In other words,
there could be no such thing as proof at all. Similarly no
inquiries concerning the origin of ideas can suffice to point
out those which are the least disputable. Valuable and
useful as such inquiries are in other ways, they cannot
suffice. To be conclusive, they must depend on some
general affirmation such as, " No beliefs due to the associa-
tion of animal feelings, or of ideas, can be most certain
truths," or, " Whatever idea is a priori, or God-implanted, or
manifested in the dawning intelligence of an infant, must
be a most certain truth." But since the truth of these
propositions themselves is questioned by many persons,
whatever depends on them can have no pretensions to be

(evidently and supremely true.
And, indeed, it is by no means clear why a surpassing
.^ keenness of mental vision should be attributed to babies
i or why our earliest beliefs should be thought less fallible
^ than the beliefs of our maturity. Again, if the outcome

k

lO ON TRUTH.

of the first sensations and cognitions of infants are to be
taken as the appointed means for revealing to us ulti-
mate truths, why should judgments be necessarily dis-
credited if they come to us by the agency of the yet earlier
sensations and cognitions of animal ancestors ? Why,
again, are beliefs to be considered less certain and ultimate
if they be due to the association of sensations and ideas,
than if they be due to spontaneous, original impulses ? All
the phenomena of nature take place according to certain
laws, and it is difficult to see why, of the various laws regu-
lating our mental activity, we are to regard those w^hich
determine our mental associations as pernicious and mis-
leading in comparison with those which regulate our spon-
taneous, original beliefs — if any such we have. That a
5 judgment is " God-implanted," is a good reason for accept-
ing it with those who already believe in "an all-wise and
benevolent Creator." That it cannot claim universal
acceptance, however, is clear from the fact that so many
books have been written to refute persons who affirm that
we have no sufficient evidence of God's existence, or, at
least, of His goodness.
Thismguiry But, as bcforc obscrvcd, all inquiries into the origin and \

rtfcrs to the , ,. . .

grounds and causcs of our belieis, valuable and mterestmg as they are for

criterion of ^ irii -i r \ • • •

btiie/s, not the study ot the human mmd, are out of place m an mquiry

to their / . , • i i , , .

origin. as to what judgments are evidently and supremely certain.
The latter inquiry refers to the grounds of belief which any
judgment may exhibit in and by itself — to a criterion of its
truth — and not at all to the causes which have produced it.
Yet there are philosophers who have been so busy in trying /
to find out how different propositions have come to be '
believed, that they have neglected the more fundamental
inquiry why they should be believed — what grounds of cer-
tainty they exhibit. By the " grounds of certainty " which
any judgment can show, it is not, of course, meant any-'^
thing external to it. Such a meaning would imply a proof'
of the judgment, and would involve us in an endless and
resultless scries of arguments, as already pointed out. The
^ut'i!^^' ojlk-gtQUrici of cgrtainty which an ultimate and supremely
cannot be ccrtaiu judgmcut can possess, is its self-evidence — its own
manifestcertainty in and b^ itself All proof, or reasoning,

EVIDENCE AND CERTAINTY. I I

must ultimately rest upon truths which carry with them

their own evidence and do not, therefore, need proof.,

Some persons on first meeting with this assertion may be

startled at the suggestion of believing anything whatever]

on "its own evidence," fancying that it is equivalent tof \l^)

a suggestion that they slj^\^d believe blindly. This is due\

to the second of those teo mental associations to which > y

attention was called in the earlier part of this chapter, /' y

namely, that association which induces a feeling that to

believe anything without proof is to believe it blindly, but

that we do not believe blindly that which comes to us as

the result of a process of reasoning. And yet it is manifest,

on reflection, that if it is not blind credulity to believe what

is evident to us by means of something else, it must be

still less blind to believe that which is directly evident in

and by itself! No demonstration of Euclid can be more

than "evidently" true, and it is evidence, and q-mi^^vlzq. seif-evidenu

alone, which gives certainty to any proposition whatever. 'ti>tw« <7/

But here once more an objection may occur to the reader, ^''"''^''

for he may naturally object that multitudes of men take

as evidently true the most mistaken judgments — as, for

example, that a railway carriage in which they are seated

is in motion, instead of another really moving beside it ; ,

or that it is the motion of the sun itself which causes it to

"rise" and "set." But no judgment is to be deemed an

evident one unless all readily available tests of its truth

have been made use of. We must examine whether it be \

the opinion of our fellow-men, whether it is supported by j .,

the testimony of our senses, or whether the reasoning pro- ^^

cesses which have been employed to prove it (if the evident F

judgment be the result of reasoning) are valid. Moreover, I

no judgment is to be considered as self-evident unless it \

appears to be so not only at first, but also on reflection

afterwards. It must be seen, when we have maturely

reflected about it, to be certain without proof Instances

of familiar home truths have been already given, and it is

easy enough to give others, such, for example, as the truth

that " if we have had the misfortune to lose an eye, we cannot

still have the pair we had before such misfortune occurred,"

or the truth that " a stick three feet long and one thirty-six

/:)'

12

ON TRUTH.

General,
or abstract,
necessary
truths.

inches long are of equal length, because each is a yard
long." Truths about any objects different in number— for
example, about groups of marbles ; as that five marbles
and five marbles make ten marbles — may be abstracted or
enlarged first into the arithmetical, and afterwards into the
algebraical "abstract" truths— five added to five make ten,
or 5^ + 5^ = 10^. Just so the above two judgments about
the two eyes and two sticks may be easily enlarged respec-
tively into the "yabstract^^jropiisitiofts : Nothing can, at
the same time, both " be and not be," and " things which are
equal to the same thing are equal to each other." These
two general propositions will, on reflection, be seen, like the
particular judgments from which they have been abstracted,
to be certain without proof ; they may, therefore, be said
to be necessarily true or " necessary truths." Reflection
will also show that we can have no certainty about any-
thing if those abstract judgments are not absolutely certain.
They are therefore truths which are necessary for our
intellectual activity.

But we have already seen that absolute certainty does
exist, and that, as a fact, we may validly argue in its defence.
At the root, then, of all certainty, there must lie perceptions
of three orders of truths all supremely certain and self-
evident, namely, (i) perceptions of a greater or less number
of general truths ; (2) perceptions of particular facts ; and
(3) perceptions of the force of some arguments. If we had
no certain knowledge of self-evident general truths, advance
in knowledge would be absolutely impossible, and we could
not argue ; for if anything could be and not be at the same
•time, then something proved might at the same time be un-
proven. If we had no certain knowledge of any fact — as,
for example, that we have some feeling or belief — all our
demonstrations would, as it were, remain suspended in the
air and have nothing to do with reality ; and if there were
no reality, there could be no real truth, and therefore no
certainty. Lastly, if the truth of some mode of reasoning
was not clearly self-evident, we could never arrive at any
conclusion, and all argument would be vain. But men of
all schools of thought, who argue, show that they do not
think all argument vain. The conclusion that any given

EVIDENCE AND CERTAINTY. 12,

man will ultimately die if mortality is the sure lot of all
men, is a judgment the certainty of which is seen on
reflection as well as at first, and is admitted by the
common consent of mankinds

The most certain and indisputable judgments, then, are
those which require no proof, but are self-evident. If any,
reader is still dissatisfied with self-evidence as the one
criterion of ultimate truths, let him ask himself what other is abetter
better criterion, or ground of belief, ultimate truths could ThaZ'""
possibly have. Any criterion provided as the test of a.np'oss^ifr
ultimate judgment must either reside in the judgment
itself, and so make it luminously self-evident, or in some-
thing external to it. Now", if some criterion external to it,
indefinitely more perfect than anything we can think of,
had been provided, we could only appreciate it through
our perception of it and our judgment about it, and such
judgment could not give us certainty unless it was self-
evidently true. In this way, instead of being better oft",
we should but have self-evidence after all — and that once 1
removed — as a criterion. It will be plain on reflection that ^j)
nothing external — no common consent of mankind, com- \y
mon sense, or testimony — could ever take the place of >/^~
an ultimate criterion of knowledge, since some judgment j
of our own mind must always decide for us with respect |
to the existence and value of such criteria. The principle
of evidence, then, is one which is really ultimate, and must
be accepted under pain of complete intellectual paralysis.
It is incapable of demonstration, since it depends on nothing
else. It is constantly assumed unconsciously, and is acted
on confidently by every one who reasons. We conform to
it without thinking about it, but if we reflect on it we seelx
three good reasons for assenting to it : — (i) The spon-vT,
taneous and natural tendency of all men constantly to ^
conform to it ; (2) the destruction of all our knowledge
and the impossibility of thinking logically at all, if we do
not admit the legitimacy of the criterion ; and (3) the fact
that, by admitting it, we gain a foundation for our know-
ledge (which can thus become a mental cosmos instead of
a chaos), and are enabled to progress in science.

Our task, then, in the pursuit of truth itself should be, The task of

14 ON TRUTH.

the inquirer first, to discovcr wliat general principles, what particular i
ajurtmth. ^^^^^^ ^^^j ^^.j^,^^ mcthods of reasoning are clearly self-
evident, and therefore supremely true. When once these
have been as far as possible ascertained, we may next
proceed to elucidate by their help those truths, next in
rank, which underlie all science, following this up with an
examination of the teachings of science itself, in the supreme
or highest sense of that word. Having accomplished that
task, we shall have done all we can in the direct pursuit of
truth, and may leave to the followers of each separate,
subordinate science that indirect pursuit of it which con-
-sists in the investigation of the several orders of truths with
/which each separate science deals. All our knowledge
I must cither be self-evident, or must be legitimately deduced
C from what is self-evident. In our pursuit of truth, our
endeavour must be to proceed from the known to the
unknown, not, of course, with the expectation of being able
ever to know all things, but with a determination not to
renounce beforehand the investigation of any problem
which may seem to demand inquiry at our hands.

( 15 )

The primary fact of our own continuous existence is known to us |
with supreme certainty, though, like our feeUngs, not explicitly so |
without the aid of reflection. What we first and directly perceive ;
is our own momentary activity, but this perception implicitly j
contains the knowledge of both our existence and our feelings,/
which respectively and equally need, for their explicit cognition,!
a reflex mental act.

First fundamental fact, self-knowledge — This comniotily supposed
certain — Need of considering arguments against its possibility —
What these mean — Some truth in them — Also a false assumption
and an error of fact — Mistake as to an implication — Self know-
ledge like our knowledge of others — Primary cognitions — Ati
objection — Met by a distinction— Explicit and implicit knowledge
— Feelings cannot be know?i xuithout self-knowledge — Feelings not
known prior to self^A fitndamental error and its conseqicefices.

I In the preceding chapter an endeavour has been made

1 to bring home to the mind of the reader the truth that the

I supreme and ultimate criterion of the certainty of any

I proposition is its own luminous self-evidence. The first

Uask of the inquirer after truth was also declared to be

a search for the most certain general principles, facts, and

methods of reasoning. The quest of truth, however, is the

quest of what is eminently real ; and so, to ensure reality,

we will begin, not with the consideration of any " abstract

principle," but of a " fact."

It is no unusual thing for a person to exclaim, with First/unda-
reference to something about which he is sure, " I am as se//-il!£!f''
certain of it as I am of my own existence ; " and the '''"''^^'

6///

ON TRUTH.

This com-
ttionly sup-
posed
certain.

Kffri of
considering
arguments
against its
possibility.

<y

exclamation is generally understood to denote a very high
degree of certainty. The so often quoted Delphic precept,
ii.i^nnw ^^'^v'^^'^V ^^'=' been explained in different- senses "5>r
different writers ; but there is just one thing in which all
these writers agree, and that is that men m;^ know them-
selves. There are, of course, some unfortunate persons, in
a more or less diseased or idiotic state of mind, who, from
defect of memory or whatever cause, are unable to recognize
their own personal identity. But this book is addressed to
reasonable men of ordinary intelligence, and not to those
who are wholly or partially out of their minds ; and, indeed,
a plain man would very naturally consider any one to be
" out of his mind " who sincerely professed that he could not
know his own existence with entire certainty. It is, there-
fore, to be feared that some readers may be impatient at
meeting with an argument directed to show that we have the
fullest reason to be supremely certain of the fact of our
own existence. They may at first very naturally feel dis-
inclined to consider reasonings about a matter they have
never themselves felt it possible to doubt, even if they
have heard that other persons have been so " absurd " as
to profess to doubt about it. " To doubt one's existence,"
they will say, " is even more absurd than to believe that
one's limbs are made of glass ! " And yet there are two
good reasons why no one who would earnestly inquire
after truth, should refuse to consider carefully the argu-
ments which follow. The first of these two rppgonc; is that
the question concerning the^supreme certainty of the fact
of our self-knowledge is of fundamental importance for the
inquiry after truth. If that certainty cannot be established,
then the inquiry after truth may, for reasons hereafter
stated, be given up as one essentially insoluble. The
second reason is the circumstance that very eminent,
fJTglily Iniyllyctual men have denied, and do deny, the
supreme certainty of our self-knowledge. Now, it is not
for a moment to be supposed that such men are insincere,
or that they can adhere to a doctrine which does not con-
tain some truth. It will probably, then, be worth while to
try and find out what this truth is which they do hold,
and to examine whether they have not overlooked some

SELF-KNOWLEDGE. I J

Other truth which, if also taken into account, would serve
to explain their paradoxical denial of certainty to our self-
knowleds:e^ And indeed, as mi^jht be expected, these ^/^^^ ^/'"«

"=" > & JT ^ mean.

paradoxical assertions do not turn out, when carefully
1 examined, to be so glaringly absurd as they at first sight
1 seem to be. When the supreme certainty of our know-
i ledge of our own existence is denied, the certain existence
I of the feeling which any person may have at the moment A j ,
I when he says, " I exist," is not thereby denied. What is
denied, is the possibility of our having any supreme cer-
tainty that one continuous, enduring being,. or " self," goes
on existing during the succession of what we call its
different "feelings." It is fully admitted that we are con-
iscious of our various feelings as they successively arise,
|but we are said not to be conscious of any continuously ex-
isting being which remains essentially unchanged through-
out the successive changes of its feelings. Such a being,
it is affirmed, we can never know apart from our various
" states of feeling ; " and, as we can never even know it, we
most certainly can never be " supremely certain " about its
existence. Supreme certainty, they say, we may indeed
have about our present feeling, whatever that may be, but ■
about nothing else ; and they deny that we have, or can t
have, such certainty about our continuous, enduring " self,"
or "ego," as we have about our " feelings," or, as they are
generally termed, our "states of consciousness." A \\{X\q some truth
reflection will show that there is a certain truth in these
statements, strange and startling as they may at first sight
seem to be. Any one, even unaccustomed to such reflex
mental acts,* may easily perceive that he can be absolutely
certain about the existence of any feeling — such as, e.g., a
feeling of a sweet taste, or of warmth, or of cold — while he
is actually feeling it, A little further reflection will show
him that the present existence of such a feeling, or "state
of consciousness," is so certain that it is absolutely impos-
sible for even any supernatural power, however exalted, to
make him think that a feeling does not exist while he
himself is actually feeling it.

In maintaining, then, the absolute certainty of any

* See above, p. 8.

C

1 8/// ON TRUTH.

present "feeling" or "state of consciousness" actually
present to the mind, the teaching here combated has right
and reason on its side. It has also right and reason on
its side when it goes on to affirm that we cannot know
ourselves apart from our various states of feeling and apart
from the different modifications we undergo. The reader
will readily enough perceive that he is reading or has
ceased to read, as the case may be, but he will never
obtain a distinct perception of any essential "self" which
is neither doing anything itself nor having anything done
to it.

In conceding so much it may appear that we have

conceded all, but such is by no means the case ; for a

also a false Httlc paticncc will enable us to disentangle, in the asser-

assuniption ^ _

and an error \\QXi's. cHticiscd, onc Unwarranted assumption and one error

of/act. I ...

/ of fact. The 1 1 n warj-/y;it£-.£L..^aaiMiia.pttQ.Q^i.'^^ th at we can

i?\. I know nothHig with supreme certainty unless we know it
V/ I by itself, and apart from any other entit}'' with which it is
intimately connected, either temporarily or permanently.
he error of fact is, that we can be conscious of the feelings
w'^^liav^, kpdil: "fiuill any consciousness of the self which
has such feelings. As to the unwarranted presumption, it
is so far from being a truth that we can only know a thing
by itself, that the very contrary is the case. We can really
know no thing by itself. No thing can be known by us
except through our simultaneous knowledge of some other
I thing with which it stands in some relation or other. For
l. example, nothing can be known as large except we know
? something smaller ; or as warm, or sweet, or dark, or rough,
except in contrast with things relatively cold, not-sweet,
light, or smooth. It would not, then, be by any means
wonderful if we only knew ourselves as related with our
simultaneously known feelings, or only knew our feelings
as related with our simultaneously known selves. As to
the error of fact, it is a truth (to the demonstration of which
this chapter will be devoted) that what we have just repre-
sented as being by no means wonderful, is certainly true.
We have not, and cannot have, any more knowledge or
perception of our feelings apart from our knowledge and
perception of ourselves, than we can have knowledge or

SELF-KNOWLEDGE. IQ

perception of ourselves apart from our knowledge or per-
ception of our feelings.

Indeed here, as in so many other instances, error exists Mistake as

\ c r 1 1 • to an ini-

m the form of a mistaken negation, which has been too z^''^^''^''^-
hastily supposed to be involved in a true affirmation. The
true affirmation is, " We may he supremely and absolutely
certain of the existence of present feelings or states of con-
sciousness." The_jrnistaken negation, erroneously supposed
to be involved in that affirmation is^' We have no such
certainty of the existence of an enduring — i.e. substantial —
self, or ego, as zve have of those ' states of consciousness '
which ive assume that ^self to experienced Another and
complementary truth, then, which the eminent men before
referred to have, we believe, overlooked, is the equal cer- \
tainty which exists between our knowledge (i) of our- \
selves, and (2) of our feelings, and the impossibility of our /
knowing either of these, apart and alone.

The erroneous nature of the negation just stated may,
we venture to think, be demonstrated as follows : It is
quite true — as has been above admitted — that we never
do know our own substantial being in its very essence
simply, alone and unmodified. From this truth, however,
it is not to be inferred (as the men here combated do infer)
that we cannot know our substantial, essential being — ouri
enduring "self" — with absolute and supreme certainty.
It is not indeed in the least degree wonderful that we
never know our own "self" in an entirely unmodified con-
dition because, during our whole lives, it never has been,
is, or will be, in such a condition. We never know it
except in some "state," but then it never exists or has
existed except in some state. In this respect our know- sei/-
ledge of ourselves is like our knowledge of anybody and uZZu/'
everybody else. Many readers may have seen, and some ofoT/Jrf.'
have known, the late Lord Beaconsfield. But however
intimate and prolonged any one's knowledge of him may
have been, it is certain that no one ever knew him except
in some " state " — as in the House of Commons or out of it,
as speaking or silent, as in motion or at rest, as at home or
abroad, as with his hat on or with his hat off — and this for
the very good, though obvious, reason that he never did

^o^y

ON TRUTH.

Primary
cognitions.

or could for one moment exist except in some "state" or
other. This plain truth, however, in no way prevents any-
one having very truly and really known him, and known
him to be the very same person through various changing
states. That none of us have ever known a friend except
" in some state " is most true ; yet we may have known
a friend exceedingly well for all that, and it would not
be a little odd if we were to be told we could not really
know a friend unless we could know him in a mode in
which he never did, and never by any possibility could,
exist. Just so it is with the substantial, essential "self" or
" ego." Our never having known it except in some " state "
in no way prevents our having very really and truly known
it. But how do we know this "self" of ours, and what
fact about it do we seem to know most certainly and
directly ? Ordinarily our attention is (as said in the first
'chapter*) directed to external objects and events, and is
very rarely occupied in considering the operations of our
own minds. In the morning of life this is especially the
case, and young children are occupied exclusively with
things external. Nothing can well be more false than the
assertion that our knowledge of " states of consciousness "
is primary as regards time. It certainly is not primary in
chronological order. But is it primary in any order ? A
little careful consideration of our own feelings and percep-
tions will, we believe, show that our knowledge of our own_|[
mental states — of our feelings — is in no way primary. _,!|
When our attention is roused to action — when we become ' '
aware of anything — what we are primarily and directly
conscious of is neither "our mental state" nor yet our
own "continuous self" either. We are aware of some-
thing being done by us, or being done to us. We have
in every case a feeling, and in every case a sense of our
own self-existence, but what- we- know primarily, directly
and immediately, is neither the "feeling" nor the "self-

existence," but the concrete actual thing then being ex-
perienced. We can, indeed, become distinctly and explicitly
aware of either the " feeling " or the " self-existence " by
turning back our mind upon itself, and making a reflex

* See above, p. 8.

SELF-KNOWLEDGE. 21

mental act, and mentally saying, " I have such and such
a feeling," or, " I now exist." Any one can very readily
test the truth of this assertion. Let the reader lay down
this book. Having laid it down, let him consider what he
was directly conscious of in so doing, and he will see that
he was conscious of performing that act. While doing
it he will, of course, have remained "himself," and whilq
doing it will also have felt a variety of sensations of touchy'
effort, and pressure, and of colour, in addition, if he hai
looked at the book while he was putting it down. Of
these sensations and of his own existence he will have been
alike conscious, but his direct attention he will find has
been neither addressed to "the persistent existence of his
own being" nor to the "existence of the various sensations
of touch, effort, and pressure," but to the self-action of
" laying the book down." Nevertheless he can, if he likes,
turn back his mind on itself and note either the "feelings"
or the " perception of his own continuous existence " which
have, and has, accompanied his act of laying down the book.
Moreover, though these " feelings " or " states of conscious-
ness " are not the primary or direct objects of cognition, we
must nevertheless experience them in order to have the
direct cognition of our own activity. It is their unnoticed
presence which brings about that direct cognition, nor can
we conceive of any way of obtaining a knowledge of our
own being, save by the existence in us of " feelings " or
^'states of consciousness" of some kind, the presence of
which serves to arouse that direct perception of ourselves
in action.

As another example, let us suppose that the reader
pexicei¥-es.~somje... sweet -violets. In perceiving them he is
implicitly aware both of his own existing self and also of
his feelings — the sight and smell of the violets. Neverthe-
less, his mind will be turned at first neither expressly on \
his feelings nor expressly on himself, but upon the object 1
consciously perceived. At the same time he may, if he
pleases, direct his mind so as to perceive either that he has
" a feeling of violet- sweetness," or that it is he himself who
has that feeling ; in other words, he may direct his mind
so as to perceive his " feelings " or his " continuous self-

-X

2 2^^

ON TRUTH.

An
objection.

i

/^>

///

existence." Again, let us imagine a man in the act of_

examininCT.hI§rc6nscieiice..as-4a.liis,-:tv.Qrthiness or>.i^

nessr''What will such a man ask himself? Certainly not
afiything about his " feelings " as apart from himself, or
about "himself" as apart from his feelings or actions. He
will ask himself, " What have I done, said, or willed, of
this, that, or the other kind?" In such an examination
the existence of " states of consciousness " is of course
implied, as the existence of the "continuous self" is also
implied. Neither, however, is explicitly referred to prima-
rily. What is thus explicitly referred to is the " action
of the^seTfor actual "self-action." To attend either to
the "mental states " as such, or to the " enduring self" as
such, implies a further deliberate mental act. Neverthe-
less it is evident that we could not have any knowledge of
such past " action of the self," except through the presence
of those " mental states," the existence of which is not
directly adverted to by us/'

But some persons may be inclined to deny that there is
this distinction between being aware of any "self-action "
and being aware of the " feeling " which accompanies it.
They may say, " To know that we are conscious of any
feeling is nothing more than to attend to it, and is no
really fresh act of knowledge. To say first, 'I am hot,'
and then, ' I know that I am hot,' is not to make two
assertions, but only one. For we cannot feel at all with-
out being conscious of such feeling, and this knowledge
of the state of mind or feeling is an essential part of
having a feeling at all. To those who assert that in order
to know anything we must not only know, but also know
that we know, it may be objected that, according to their
view, in order to know that we know, we should need to
know that we know that we know, and so on for ever, and
thus we could never attain any real knowledge at all."' In \
reply to this argument we might, in the first place, dispute »
the assertion that "we cannot feel without being conscious 1

sensa-

of such feeling," for though we cannot have true
tions without feeling them in some way, we may receive
sensitive impressions whereof we may remain unconscious.
Nevertheless as our express object here is to examine

SEL F-KNO W LEDGE. 23^^

feelings of which we do become aware, the question re-
specting unnoticed sensations may be allowed to stand
over for treatment in a subsequent chapter.*

The answer to be here given to the above objection is Methya
the following one : When any one says first, " I am hot,"
and subsequently, " I know that I am hot," he does make
two assertions, each of which refers to a separate and dis-
tinct fact. The former refers to a direct fact of sensation,
the latter refers to a fact of reflex mental activity — the one
whereby the knowledge of that direct fact of sensation is
[recognized. It is by no means, however, here affirmed ^
fthat such second reflex mental act is at all necessary for
real knowledge ; otherwise the objection above made —
namely, that such reflex acts must be repeated " for ever,
so that we can never attain any real knowledge " — would
be well founded. Such a second reflex mental act, how-
ever, though not necessary for real knowledge, is necessary
for a particular kind of real knowledge. We may know
indeed directly, and without reflection, that we are hot ; but
if we desire to have that reflex kind of real knowledge by
which we know as a fact that we have that first direct kind
of knowledge, then, in order to obtain it, we must of course
make such second act, and so on. If we were to make up
our minds to obtain a series of twenty such more and
more reflex kinds of knowledge, then, of course, we must
repeat such acts twenty times over. Certainty attends the
direct first act, but not that kind of certainty which one
has when one says, " This present state of consciousness
exists." After having the first conscious feeling, which by
itself is enough to impart knowledge and certainty, a man
may expressly advert by one reflex act, to himself as having
the feeling, or, by another, to the feeling itself as being felt.
These are both implied in the first direct act, though they can
only be explicitly recognized by the requisite turning back
of the mind in one or other direction. To the statement
that " we cannot consciously feel without knowing that we
feel," the answer is : we cannot, indeed, so feel without Expudtaitd
knowing _£^iiii<V<»W that we feel, though we can so feel ^vw^^^^.
without explicitly recognizing the fact. In the very same

* See below, ch. xiv. Memory.

24/,, ON TRUTH.

way also we cannot consciously feel without knowing
implicitly that we exist and have the feeling, i.e. without
recognizing implicitly our enduring " self" or " ego," though
we can so feel without recognizing ourselves explicitly —
as is manifest from the contentions of those who deny the
supreme certainty of our self-knowledge. Indeed, our
" self-knowledge " and our " knowledge of a present state of
consciousness " are, as it were, parallel to each other, and
lie on either side of the direct act of consciousness which
contains them both implicitly, but neither of them expli-
citly. Our direct, simple, immediate perception is always,
as before said, one of self-modification — in doing, existing,
or being acted on — the simple apprehension of some expe-
rience of our living being. Not, of course, of the "doing"
as " something being done," or of the action as " being an
action," or of "one's self" as "one enduring, substantial
\l existence," but of our own concrete activity — of the fact
itself, and not of the fact as "being a fact." The "self"
— the substantial, continuous being — is indeed, we have
already fully admitted, only deliberately perceived and
explicitly recognized by reflection. But the " state of
consciousness " is itself in the very same case. It is, then,
to be positively denied that, in the primary direct mental
act, we know the existence of a " feeling " or " state of
consciousness " one bit more than we know the existence of
the being who has the state. Though both the " self
the " state " are implicitly contained in that direct act
consciousness (the "self" quite as vividly as the "state"),
yet neither the one nor the other is given explicitly in
that direct act, nor can be recognized without reflection
— without a secondary, separate, reflex act of mind^

(Feeiinp But though wc need such a separate mental act for the

cannot be .. .

*««t.»tw7A. explicit recognition of either (i) "our endurinp- self" or
out iClf- , , ^ ^ "

i'»^'^-tcdet [2) our ' states of consciousness," yet that law by which
we can know nothing singly, prevents our being able to
explicitly recognize the one without, at the very same time,
implicitly recognizing the other. That we cannot fully
know "ourselves" save by a reflex act is true, but that very
reflex act which makes us explicitly conscious of our own
being, is accompanied by a consciousness of our feelings

^

^

ice oi ^
" an dp
ict of

SELF-KNO W LEDGE. 2 5 ^

also. That we cannot fully know our " feelings " save by
a reflex act is also true, but that very reflex act which
makes us explicitly conscious of our feelings, is accom-
panied by a consciousness of the self which has those
feelings. Indeed, the word " feeling " is absolutely mean-
\ ingless for us except with reference to a something which
'has " feeling ; " as the word "self" is meaningless except
\with reference to something which is " not-self," the notion
pf which is implicitly contained in the notion of self, as
Will be more fully pointed out in a subsequent chapter.
Thus we trust we have already made plain the fact, the
certainty of which is here contended for, namely, that we i
have equally certain knowledge of " ourselves " and of I
our " feelings," and that neither can be known apart from I
the other. If it were true, then, that we cannot know our-
selves with certainty because we cannot know ourselves
apart from our feelings, it would also be true that we cannot
know our feelings with certainty because we cannot know
those feelings apart from ourselves. But the fact of our
knowledge of our own feelings is conceded on all hands.
The fact of our knowledge of ourselves must then be
conceded also.

To make our contention still plainer, let us make a
further supposition. Let us suppose that a man of ordinary
susceptibility has received a slap on the face. What is
■ his immediate, explicit perception? Not that a certain " state
of consciousness " exists, nor that there is an " enduring
self" which has become newly modified. His direct per-
ception is that he has been struck, and different " feelings "
will accompany that perception according to the circum-
stances of the case. He may then, if he pleases, explicitly
examine his "feelings" or explicitly consider " himself" as
affected by what has occurred ; and, in either case, he will,
by so doing, hold up, as it were, to his mind's eye, the
" feelings " or the " self," and regard them by that second
application of the intellect which we have before termed
" reflex." But he cannot so examine his " feelings " with- ^
out a, perception that they are his, owri,..Jior examiiie i

"himself " without a perception of the more or less^ vivid I

feelings which JiaveJustbeen^o.^ggd.Jjy^i^ \

a

Ak-

26^.i,

ON TRUTH.

Ill

f

'/

Feeling net

As a yet further illustration of what we mean, let us
imagine a man engaged in a fencing match. Such a man
will plainly have his attention directly engaged in the
carrying on of the contest. Nevertheless it is no less plain
that during all the time he is "parrying," "lunging," etc.,
he is both conscious of his feelings — his states — and also
of himself carrjnng on the struggle. Yet it is neither
his "mental states" nor his "persistent self" which he
directly regards, but his concrete activity — what he is doing
and what is being done to him. He, indeed (like the man
whose face we have supposed to be slapped), may, if he
has a natural turn for self-examination, direct his attention
from these direct perceptions in order either to analyze
his feelings or note his underlying personality. Should
he do so, however, a hit from his adversary's foil will be
the pretty certain consequence, and may serve to make
him aware of the new direction his thoughts have taken.

Once more : To perceive anything we are in the act of
doing {i.e. to do it consciously, and not as in sleep-walking
or reverie) is one thing ; to think either about the feeling
which may accompany the doing, or about the self which
has the feeling, is another, second kind of act. In that
second kind of act we may explicitly attend either to the
feeling or to the self, both of which, as before insisted on,
are perceived implicitly, though not explicitly, in the first or
direct act. To say that the explicit recognition of the " feel-
ing" or "state of consciousness" is prior to, or has any
greater validity than, the explicit recognition of the " self," is
false in fact, and contradicts what our own consciousness tells
us about ourselves. We then altogether deny the assertion
referred to, and, on the contrary, affirm that our knowledge
of our own substantial, continued existence (the "self" or
ego) is as primary, as fundamental, as certain, as direct, and
as infallible, as is our knowledge of the existence of any
given "state of consciousness." Who, indeed, can know [
his " state of consciousness " at any given moment, except
by analyzing his direct perception by a reflex act ? To
know that one " has a feeling," or " is in a state," or even
that " a feeling exists," is plainly an act by which no one
begins to think. It is evidently a secondary act— an " act

^

SELF-KNO W LEDGE. 2 7^

i ■ .. ^^

I of reflection." No one begins by expressly perceiving his
f perception a bit more than he begins by expressly advert-
ing to the fact that it is he himself who perceives it. He
begins (as before said) by having some other direct per-
ception of acting or being acted on, in which perception
both the "self" and the "states of feeling" are implicitly
contained. To explicitly note that the " perception " or^
"feeling" exists, is, at least, just as secondary, just as in-
direct, just as reflex, and just as posterior an act as it
is to explicitly note that the "self" exists which has the
perception. We say "at, least," but we believe that of |^
the two perceptions — (i) " feelings," and (2) "self" — it is i*^""^
Ihe self which is the more prominently given implicitly in « J/_
lour primary cognitions. We believe that a more laboured
fact of mental digging is reqiilsite to bring explicitly to light
Ithe implicit "state," than to disclose the implicit "self"
%yhich has that state. Men are continually and promptly
adverting to the fact that thoughts, feelings, actions, and
sufferings are tJieir oivn, but do not by any means so con-
tinually and promptly advert to the fact that the feelings
which they experience are existing feelings. Therefore oneU/^nda-
of the greatest and most fundamental errors of our day ishrror andi]
the mistake of supposmg that we can know our states otjsesuences. y
feeling or their existence, more certainly, directly, and in-l /^j

fallibly than we can know the existence of the substantiall
continuous self which has those feelings. \

This great and fundamental error has arisen from a
failure to note that though the existence of our feelings
i may be known with supreme certainty, yet their existence
^ cannot be so known without a certain turning back of the
mind on itself, and that this very same process of reflection
suffices to give us supreme certainty of our own existence
also. A recognition of that existence is indeed a necessary
condition for our being able to affirm that there are such
things as feelings at all, and — as was said at the beginning
of this chapter — if we cannot be certain as to our own
existence, our inquiry after truth may be given up as one
essentially insoluble. We may give it up because if we
lean know nothing with certainty but the feeling of the
. fjissing moment, then most certainly we can have no

\^

/

28 ON TRUTH.

certainty as to arguments or even words which have been
used by ourselves or others, and so all reasoning must
come to an end. More than this, we can have no certainty
even with respect to our own past thoughts and we cannot
therefore even think with any profit concerning such a
matter as the pursuit of truth ; we can but amuse ourselves
with idle imaginings devoid alike of any certain aim or
any trustworthy guidance. Let us, however, once see
clearly — by the aid of such reflections as those offered in
the preceding chapter and in this one — that not only does
certainty exist, but that we may have complete certainty
as to at least one supremely important fact, namely, the
fact of our own existence, and most important conse-
quences will follow. The certainty of this fact affords us a
firm and solid foundation on which we may erect a temple
of truth, and it is on this account that we have with so
much — we hope pardonable — reiteration sought to make
evident its certainty. How it is that this primary mental
fact is so important, and how we may securely advance
from it to the acquisition of other certainties to assist us
in our quest, the following pages will show ; and our next
step will be to try and make clear the self-evident certainty
of another fact, the certainty of which can be shown to be
involved in the certainty we have of our own existence.

( 29 )

CHAPTER III.

MEMORY.

The trustworthiness of our faculty of memory is a second fact which
is involved in the primary fact of our self-knowledge. That our
faculty of memory is veracious, is a truth which is self-evident, ',
incapable of proof, and cannot be denied without producing 1
absolute scepticism. I

Second fundamental fact^ the trustworthiness of memory — What the
word " memoryii'' denotes — Recollections and reminisce7ices — Cer-
tainty of memory involved in self-ktiotvledge — Truth of memory
cannot be proved — A curious fallacy — Absolute scepticism results
from the distrust of memory — The objective and subjective —
Consequences of memory'' s truthfulness.

j The two preceding chapters have brought us thus far :
I " There is such a thing as certainty, and amongst those
I things which are supremely certain is the fact of our own
lexistence." In our pursuit of truth, we may next consider second/un-
^ second fact, the certainty of which is involved in \.\\dit /act^lkf
|of our own persistent and continuous being. This second ne'slT/"'''"
fact is the trustworthiness of our faculty of memory. But ""^'"°^'
many objections to the unqualified assertion of its trust-
worthiness will readily occur to the reader's mind. It is
obvious that not only may we sometimes fail to recollect
events in which we have borne a part, but that we may even
fancy some circumstances to have been the very reverse of
what in fact they were. We occasionally meet with people
in a state of doubt as to whether they had or had not some »
particular past experience, and with others who feel confi-
dent they were witnesses of something which they were
never near witnessing — as George the Fourth is said to

30 ON TRUTH.

have made himself believe that he was present at the
battle of Waterloo, or as women have died for their con-
viction that they had actually ridden through the air on
broomsticks. It is plain that individuals may make mis-
takes as to what they remember, and defects of memory
which occasionally occur are very singular and surprising.
Thus some persons may lose the recollection of particular
parts of speech — as of all adjectives or all pronouns — and
others, who have sustained some injury of the head, may
find great gaps in their memory of the past, which gaps
will gradually close up as they recover from the effects of
the damage inflicted on them. But such exceptional
phenomena do not tell against the fact of the general
trustworthiness of memory.

In the last chapter it was shown that the existence of \
idiots and of half demented persons unable to recognize '
their own personal identity, did not tell against the cer-
tainty of our self-knowledge generally. It was also
declared that this work is addressed to persons of ordinary
capacity, and is not intended as a means for remedying
any exceptional intellectual deficiency ; and this, of course,
also applies to any abnormal deficiency in, or perversion
of, the power of memory. But an objection which seems
at first to have much force in it may be made to memory's
truthfulness. It may be said that our recollection as to

I anything whatever is less trustworthy than is our know-
ledge of what we are actually experiencing at the moment.
kj Now, it is of course true that our knowledge of many past
^ Ij ' events is not so absolutely certain as is our knowledge
^ of some present events ; but what we are concerned with
here is not the trustworthiness of particular facts of
memory, but thc_veracjty.j:if our faculty of memory. It is
to be freely conceded that individuals may make occa-
sional mistakes as to this or that past event, but the trust-
worthiness of our faculty of memory, as^a^ faculty, remains
absolutely certain notwithstanding. It informs us as to
some portions of the past as certainly as our consciousness -j^
informs us concerning some portions of the present. Such
is the case, since we cannot have, even as to the present
that supreme certainty which accompanies our reflex con-

^

^

MEMORY. 31

sideration about anything we may be actually experiencing
— as when we say " Now I certainly am hot " — unless our
faculty of memory is supremely certain also — as will
shortly appear^''

Let us first, however, see what the term "memory" whattiie CX^
really denotes. Evidently we cannot be said to remem- ''""memory" ^'
ber anything unless we are conscious that the thing we "''°^^^' **

so remember has been present to our mind on some
previous occasion. An image might recur to our imagi-
nation a hundred times ; but if at each recurrence it
seemed to us something altogether new and unconnected
with the past, we could not be said to remember it. It
would, in fact, be rather an example of extreme " forget-
fulness " than of " memory ; " though we, of course, should
not know that it was such, since we should not know that
it had any relation whatever to the past. In " rnemory," .
then, there are and must be two distinct elements. The
first element is the reproduction before the mind of what ; '.'■
has been before it previously, and the second element
is the recognition of what is so reproduced as some-
thing actually connected with the past. There is yet
a further distinction which may be drawn between acts
of memory. Every now and then we direct our attention
to try and recall something which we know we have for
the moment forgotten, and which we instantly recognize
when we have managed to recall it to our recollection.
But besides this voluntary memory, we are sometimes Recollections
startled by the flashing into consciousness of something nLe>Z"s'
we had forgotten, and which we were so far from trying
to recollect, that we were, when it so flashed into conscious-
ness, thinking of something entirely different. A distinc-
tion, then, is to be drawn between those acts of memory
in which, by a conscious direction of the will, we search
for and find something wc desire to recollect, and those
acts of memory by which we have a spontaneous, unsought jj'
reminiscence in consciousness of some past experience.
The former class may be conveniently distinguished and
spoken of as "reco/lections^' and the latter as " renihiis-
"^^cen^^sll. It is obvious, however, that neither of these kinds
of memory can exist without consciousness. No repetition

V

&

r^24'/ ON TRUTH.

of a feeling is an act of memory unless we are conscious of
it as, not only existing, but as also related to the past.
The 'significance and importance of these remarks will
appear later * ,

ceriaintyof It was Said just uow that the supreme certamty of our
Sw faculty of memory, is a necessary condition for therecog-
'^:^ci,e nition even of our own present existence. We can, mdeed,
have that immediate perception of our own present activity
which was declared in the last chapter to be direct and
^V Xrimary, but we cannot obviously have the reflex percep-
tion, either of our feelings or of ourselves, without trusting
jour power of memory as to the past. For, however rapid
'may be our mental processes, no mental act takes place
without occupying some period of time,t and when we turn
back the mind to consider the perception "self" or the
" feelings " involved in our direct perception of self-action, ;
that perception of self-action is and must be already past.'
tl /We cannot, therefore, know either a present feeling as
\ [ being a feeling, or the fact of our own existence as being a
•'''V persistent existence, without trusting our faculty of memory.
\ As, then, we are with reason most absolutely certain of our
" own existence " and of our " feelings," it cannot be with
less reason that we are also absolutely certain as to the
[fact of the trustworthiness of our faculty of memory,
[absolute certainty as to which is necessarily involved in
;our absolute certainty as to the existence of ourselves and
^our feelings. These observations are merely offered for
the purpose of clearing away any obscurity which may
temporarily exist in the reader's mind about a matter, the
truth of which will be clearly certain to him when he care-
Truiho/ fully considers what his own consciousness tells him. Our
7a7,^be observations are certainly not offered him as constituting
/r<nw. ^j^y p^Qf^f Qf ^.j^j^ veracity of memory, because its veracity
is a self-evident truth, and therefore requires no proof.
Proof of it is, indeed, impossible, as no process of argument
can be carried on except by trusting in memory's veracity.

* .See below, ch. xiv.

t No mental act lakes place in us without the aid of our nervous system,
and the rate at which an influence passes along our nervous system varies
according to circumstances, and is always very slow compared with the transit
of some physical forces, such as electricity, light, etc.

\i

MEMORY. H

In fact, without trusting memory we could never be certain
that any one step taken in a hne of argument had been
taken, or that the meaning of a proposition, or even of a
word, as understood by us at the moment of using it, had
the same meaning as it had antecedently had. The trust-
worthiness of the faculty of memory is, then, one of those
things most evidently and supremely true, the search for
which was declared in the first chapter to be one of those
steps in the pursuit of truth to be taken next after the
recognition that such a thing as certainty exists. It is
also one of those fundamental facts upon which all our
future arguments must be based, and which were, in the
same chapter, represented as being at the root of all
certainty.

An objection has been made to this view of the self- a curious )
evidence of memory's veracity, and it has been very strangely "' ^^'
declared that we may trust our faculty of memory, not y-f
because its certainty is self-evident, but because we learn ' //
its trustworthiness by experience. But any one maintain-
ing such a proposition as this, necessarily contradicts
himself flatly. Our past experience can have no value
whatever for us if we do not trust our memory, by which
alone we can possibly tell that we have had any such
experience at all. To doubt the veracity of our faculty I
of memory destroys the value of all experience whatever, .
and, therefore, he who would maintain that our certainty
as to memory is based on experience, must say in effectj
that " the faculty of memory being by itself untrustworthy,'
we learn its trustworthiness by what is untrustworthy also,"
or, in other words, that " we can never have had that
thing (namely, ti'ii^stworthy experience) by having which
we have obtained our knowledge of memory's trustworthi-
ness." Surely never was a contradiction more patent, or a
fallacy more obvious ! What can be the possible value of
any experience which we cannot be certain that any one
ever had, and which we ourselves can never have had, since
we cannot, by the hypothesis, trust our faculty of memory ?
How can we ever gain experience if we do not trust
memory in gaining it ? Particular acts of memory may
of course be confirmed by experience if the faculty of

D

34^ ON TRUTH.

memory be already confided in, but in every such instance

it must be confided in. Any person who would maintain

the above fallacy must profess to place confidence in his

present act of memory, because in past instances its truth

has been experimentally confirmed, and he can only know

that it has been so confirmed by trusting his present

I Absolute memory! Therefore, neither by experience nor in any

I ^resuUs'j^om othcr way can we prove the trustworthiness of our faculty

\menw^f of mcmory, which we know for certain without proof. For

^ although our memory by no means vouches for the past

with the same force in all cases, yet there are some past 1

events of our lives which our present state of mind tells -

us we know with certainty. Some things we may know

we have forgotten, other things we may not feel clear

about, but as to some other things, memory makes them

evident to us, as it doubtless makes evident to the reader

of this passage that he did begin to read it, and that he

was doing something else before he began to read it.

Indeed, if we can be certain of nothing past, we cease

I thereby to be reasonable beings. If we cannot trust our
faculty of memory, then all history becomes a mere present
dream for us, as also does the whole of physical science.
What experiments, what inductions can prove anything if,
when we have made them, we cannot be sure such experi-
ments were ever carried on or such inductions drawn .■' As
has been pointed out a short time ago, even our reflex
knowledge of our own existence and our own feelings
must vanish, if we deny the trustworthiness of memory.
Our absolute certainties as to our own past and as to our
present experiences (beyond feelings actually being felt
at the moment) rest, indeed, upon the same basis, and if
we may trust, as we must trust, our reflective consciousness
at all, we must also trust our faculty of memory, upon the
veracity of which the very use of our reflective consciousness
depends. Therefore, to distrust the faculty of memory is
to fall necessarily into absolute scepticism, which was shown
in the first chapter * to be a very foolish state of mind,
and a system which so refutes itself, and is so absurd as j
to be incapable even of being rationally stated. We are '
* .See above, p 7.

\^

'/

MEMORY. 35

therefore compelled to trust, and to practically admit the
veracity of, our faculty of memory, even if disposed to
verbally deny it. We are compelled to do so by the very
constitution of our nature, and we are driven to do so
because otherwise all knowledge, all rational speech, all
reasoning, and, indeed, all consecutive thought, become im-
possible. But we do not accept and trust in our memory
on account of these reasons, but because it carries with it
its own evidence. With respect to the many matters about
which we are absolutely certain, we feel spontaneously and
without reflection the evident truth of our present know-
ledge of our own past, and reflection only serves to make
that past more clearly, distinctly, and explicitly evident ;
just as it serves to bring out more clearly, distinctly, and
explicitly that primary and direct knowledge of our own
feelings and existence, which is implicitly contained in
our perceptions.

As has been before pointed out, the natural, spontaneous/r/^^^i/^f-
tendency of the mind, especially in childhood and yo\x\^\\s7tbjective.
is not to look inwards upon the mind itself but outwards^
upon surrounding objects, which objects make various im-l
pressions upon the mind of the person who regards them.|
That person himself is the subject of such actually present
impressions which he is directly conscious of as his own
present experience. All such direct, present feelings of
him who is the subject of them, are spoken of and dis-
tinguished as " subjective " — they are states of the subject
who feels. Everything which is not a present feeling or
state of consciousness is, on the other hand, spoken of and
distinguished as " objective." What is objective, then, is not
a state of the subject who feels, but is to be understood as
something external to his feelings. It is desirable that this conse-
distinction between what is " objective " and what is " sub- Vnlmor/s
jective " should be clearly comprehended, in order that we Ve'sf/^"'''
may be better able to appreciate certain consequences
which follow from a recognition of the trustworthiness of
our faculty of memory. Whatever we feel, we feel by the
help of our senses, and we can be directly conscious of no
feelings except those which are being felt at the time we
are conscious of them. Thus, all that is felt, and all that

U;

36 ON TRUTH.

we are immediately and directly conscious of, belongs to
the category of what is subjective, and nothing is subjective
which we are not thus conscious of But our own con-
tinuous existence, though perceived with certainty, is not
felt, and neither it nor our feelings are perceived as such
with immediate, direct consciousness. They cannot be
so perceived. They cannot be perceived except reflexly,
because — as we saw in the last chapter — they need for their
distinct recognition the turning back of the mind upon
itself, which thus considers its " continuous being," or
"its feelings," or both, as the case may be, and holds them
up to the mind's eye as objects upon which it looks. They
thus belong to the category of what is objective. That
they are but states of the mind which regards them does
not prevent their being looked at as objects external to I
that mind, while it is in the act of regarding them, any|
more than the image seen by one looking at himself in a
glass is any the less a thing different from him who looks,
because all the time it is really but the reflection of himself
which he sees. The reflections of the mind as perceivedA A;(V.
in direct cognition are present and " subjective," but as j -^
recognized by reflection they are things which are past, #-«'
however recently past. They are thus made objects of/
contemplation by the mind, and are therefore " objective."
yjy >r ^^'^^ more, then, must the persistent, continuous self, or e^o^
be " o\)\<^^^'v^L- sinre it never is, and never has been
(lirrclly pcrcci\cd, while a recognition of its duratiorf
diumg past time is an essential element of its being per-
ceived at all. We recognize and know these things, as
before said, only through memory, by the help of which
we are enabled to unite^he past with the present, and say,
■^J am." Now, these two words signify a great deal ; they
signify that he who utters them recognizes past acts as his
own acts, and that a continuous unity (himself) has con-
tinued essentially unchanged through a greater or less
number of more or less varied experiences. By asserting
the trustworthiness of memory we affirm that our intellect
has the power of knowing a certain objective existence,
and an existence which is not, and cannot be, perceived by
our senses, because the senses can only feel what is present

MEMORY. 37

and can never feel what is past. The very fact of feehng
anything shows, v/ith absolute certainty, that the thing felt
is present. But a very little thought about our faculty of j
memory shows that by its aid our intellect can perceive .
with certainty that which is not present — such as some past !
event of our lives — and that which is not, and never could |
be felt — namely, our own continuous being. But some one (
may say that our continuous being can be felt because our '•

I own body can be felt, and continuously felt for a consider-
able time, so that we are under no obligations to memory
[in recognizing our continuous existence. Our own body
lean, of course, be felt in different ways at once, and our

(experiences in feeling it can be indefinitely repeated or
prolonged. But each time we feel it, we can but have the
present feeling, and, apart from memory and reflex acts of
the mind, we cannot know its existence as continuous and
enduring. Our persistent body, once more, can easily be
felt, but it can never be "felt" as enduring, although it
can be "recognized" as enduring by the help of repeated
sensations, when these are accompanied by acts of memory
and of mental reflection. This power which memory pos-
sesses of lifting us, as it were, out of our present selves, and
showing us a wide field of things external to our own minds,
which things, but for memory, we could never recognize, is a
very wonderful power. It is so wonderful that some per-
sons feel tempted by its inexplicable character to doubt the
veracity of their faculty of memory, or even to verbally
deny it. But, as we have seen, they cannot do so without
contradicting themselves, and committing intellectual
suicide by falling into the fatuous system of general
scepticism. The self-evident truth that our memory is
trustworthy is a fact involved in, and absolutely necessary
to, the full recognition of the first and most certain of all
facts for us — the fact of our own existence.

The certainty of these two preliminary facts being
clearly seen, we may next proceed, in our quest for truth,
to inquire about those supremely certain general truths or
principles which were declared, towards the end of the
first chapter, to be so fundamental that, without them, all
advance in knowledge is absolutely impossible.

38 ON TRUTH.

CHAPTER IV.

HOME TRUTHS.

The primary abstract general principle is the law of contradiction,
which is self-evident and cannot be denied without involving
absolute scepticism. Other self-evident abstract general prin-
ciples are the axiom about the equality of things equal to a third
thing, and the law of causation.

First general principle, the /azu of contradiction — Difficulties in its
acceptation — A mistaken principle proposed in place of it — Denial
of the law involves absolute scepticism — A?t objection — What\
produces a feeli7ig of uncertainty about the law — Knowledge of^
universal truths not exceptionally wonderful — Second general
principle, an axiom about equality — A fallacious objection — Third
general principle, the law of causation — The idea of ^'' power" or
'■'■force " — A?i objection and its answer.

We have now advanced two distinct preliminary steps
in our pursuit of truth ; for we have recognized the
certainty of two fundamental, self-evident facts, namely,
the facts of our own existence, and of memory's trust-
^ worthiness. But in our first chapter it was pointed out*
that, besides self-evident facts, a perception of two other
orders of self-evident truths must lie at the root of all
certainty. One of these two orders of truths concerned the
force and validity of certain arguments. We shall consider
those arguments in the next chapter. The other order of
self-evident truths consisted of general, abstract principles

ior laws, and it is to the consideration of two or three of
such laws that we must now address ourselves. It is plain,
indeed, that we cannot build up a temple of truth with

* See above, p. 12,

HOME TRUTHS. 39

nothing but "facts," however numerous and solid they
may be. To do that we also need the aid of kiminous
general principles to guide us in the arrangement of our
facts, and valid reasoning to connect them firmly together.
In our endeavour to show clearly that there is such a thing
as certainty, some very plain truths were cited,* as examples
of matters about which no sane person can doubt ; and
in explaining the nature of " abstract truths," or " general
laws," or " general principles," or " necessary truths," two
truths were selected,! which it will suit our purpose to
here somewhat dilate upon. The first of these two thus First
selected abstract truths is called " the law of contradiction," /t^w^/^-,
and may be thus expressed : "A thing cannot, at one and contrZuc-j
the same time, both be and not be." If we reflect upon
this truth we shall see that it is an absolute and necessary
one — that it must be true even to the remotest regions of
space, and that it must be true both for all the ages that have
past and for all the ages that are yet to come. But some
readers may here once more be tempted to impatience at
being asked to reflect about anything, the truth of which
is so manifestly undeniable. In deprecation of such im-
patience, we would again urge the same considerations as
we before urged % in deprecation of impatience respecting
our inquiry as to the possibility of self-knowledge. Other
readers may feel discouraged because they do not at once see
the universal necessity of the law of contradiction. It is
possible that some persons may doubt as to how things in this \
respect now are in the Dog Star, or how they have been m
this part of space during some unimaginable abyss of past
time, ages before the beginning of our world's separate
existence. It does, indeed, at first seem not a little difficult
to believe that a creature of the very limited powers which
man possesses can know such a thing as absolute,
necessary, and universal truth. How, it may be asked, x>/^<r«///W
can a being who, for a few fleeting moments, dwells in an acceptation.
inconspicuous atom of a boundless universe, know that
anything whatever is and must be true for all ages, and
for every possible region of that universe, however eternally
inaccessible to him ? At first sight a reasonable modesty

* See above, pp. 6, 7, f See above, p. J 2. % .See above, p. 16,

40 ON TRU'lH.

seems here to characterize the sceptic, and rash presump-
tion the dogmatist. Nevertheless, if instead of consider- 1
ing this truth in its abstract form, we examine it in one of
its concrete instances, its certainty will become clearly-
manifest. For example, let any one who doubts if some-
thing somewhere may not both "be" and "not be," con-
sidcr whether it is possible for him (according to the
illustration before given) both to possess his two eyes here
and now, and at the same time to have only one of them ;
let him also think whether he could do so any better in
any other place than the place where he is, or whether it
could have been possible for him at any other time which
he can conceive of Again, let him ask himself whether
he could both have lived in the reign of Edward III., and
yet have never lived at all till the reign of Queen Victoria.
He will, surely, then see clearly that this is impossible to
him, as also that what is thus impossible for him, is
impossible for other men also. But that abstract truth, the
law of contradiction just quoted, is but the summing-up in
one general expression of all concrete, separate cases of
this kind.

Here, however, another objection may occur to the

reader. He may say, " It is very true that I cannot

imagine having two eyes and only one eye at the same

//. time, and so I must practically acquiesce in the statement >

\yJ that we cannot simultaneously have both eyes and only

one, simply because I am compelled thereto by my

inability to imagine otherwise." But so to represent the

matter, is to represent it not only inadequately but in a

mistaken way, the error of which requires to be pointed

prhl'ipic"' °^^' ^"*^ ought to be clearly seen. It needs to be so seen

%ZVoju. because this mistaken representation is by some persons

considered to be a supreme and ultimate rule of truth, and,

in place of the law of contradiction, it has been laid down

that " we must accept as true, propositions we cannot help

thinking, because we cannot imagine the contrary." But

if the reader will reflect over what his mind tells him

when it unmistakably pronounces that he cannot, at the

same time, both have eyes in his head and not have them,

he will see that this perception of his is a clear positive

HOME TRUTHS. ■ 4 1

perception of incompatibility and consequent positive im-
possibility. He will not find his mind become a blank,
and declare nothing but its own inability to answer, as
he will find it do if he asks himself, " What is the dis-
position of the surface of the invisible side of the moon ? "1
or, '* Is the number of the heavenly bodies odd or even ? "I
His mind has indeed been active, and not impotent ; it has!
not declared that it was unable to answer his question, but
has declared very clearly that he positively cannot have
two eyes and, at the same time, have none, or only one.
In other words, it has in this concrete instance, as in every
other such instance, implicitly affirmed the law of contra-
diction. There are many things which we cannot think, aA'
merely through an impotence — a negative, passive inability, ^
— to think them ; as when we cannot think of all the units
one after another, which would make a million. But such
an impotence is a very different thing from positively seeing
that anything cannot be because it is positively impossible.
This truth will be further illustrated when we come to
speak of the distinction * between our powers of imagina-
tion and of intellectual conception. To say merely, " We
cannot conceive the contrary of such proposition," is to make
a mere assertion of inability, and is therefore a quite in-
adequate description of that active power of positive per-
ception which we all act upon when w^e have to choose
between two alternatives. A mere mental impotence will
not guide us in our actions, but our actions are constantly
guided by our implicit conviction of the truth expressed in
the law of contradiction, though we may never in our lives
have explicitly recognized it, or ever heard a word about •
it. The simplest rustic knows that if his wages have been
paid to him, they are no longer owing, and that if he
has put his cart horse in the stable, it is no longer between
the shafts. The most learned of mankind are, of course,
hkewise continually guided in like manner, and to such
guidance we owe every scientific deduction. If, then, per-
ceptions of the kind were due to a mere mental disability,
we might well exclaim, not " Oh, holy simplicity ! " but *' Oh,
most mighty impotence ! "

* See below, ch. x., " Imagination and Conception."

42

ON TRUTH.

/y®

y

Denial of
the law
im'olves
absolute
scepticism.

Tlie distinction here drawn between positive and nega-
tive perceptions as to possibility, we believe to be a most
important distinction, which deserves to be very carefully
noted. By the former perception we see clearly that
a thing is "positively impossible" — an expression often
familiarly used. By the latter perception we recognize
cither merely that a thing is unknown to us, or that it is
impossible for us to know it. The former perception refers
to the objective* reality of things ; the latter refers only to
our own actual ignorance, or to our inability to become the
subject of such knowledge.

If we deny or doubt about the law of contradiction,
we are thereby landed in absolute scepticism, which,
as we have seen, is absurd. We are so landed because,
if we do not admit the validity of that law, then we can
be certain of nothing. To have read or heard arguments
against that law, which arguments have convinced us of its
unsoundness, will then no longer suffice to disprove an asser-
tion that we have also never read and never heard any such
arguments at all, and that we are all the time convinced
of its soundness. If anything can, at the same time, both
be and not be, then nothing can be affirmed as true with-
out the possibility of its being simultaneously untrue, and
so we are reduced to a condition of utter intellectual
paralysis, whereby no word and no thought can have any
definite meaning for us. That nothing can both be and
not be at the same time is, then, a positive truth, known
to us by its own evidence. It is no mere law of our
own minds, but is also a law which applies to all things ;
for we have seen that it so declares, if it declares any-
thing, in those examples we selected for testing it, and we
cannot accept its declarations as both absolutely true and
partly f^ilsc, for to do so would really be to reject it alto-
gether. It plainly declares itself not to be a mere "form of
thought " imposed on our intellect, but objectively certain,
independently of our intellect. It declares itself to be ab-
solutely and positively true, both universally and necessarily.
\To regard it, then, as a mere " form of thought " is to fall
|nto utter scepticism, for it is to contradict that, the certainty

* As to the term "objective," see above, p. 35.

HOME TRUTHS. 43.

i of which is most evident to us of all propositions. It is
' thus a fundamental truth, upon which not only all reason-
ing depends, but which applies to everything which exists ;
since we see clearly that even a Supreme and Omnipotent
Being could not — however dift'erent the existence of such a
Being may be from our own — both be and be non-existent.

An objection has indeed been made against the truth ^w""^-

r 1 1 r 1 • • • jection.

ot the law of contradiction and against every neces-
sary and universal law of the kind, on the ground that |
such laws may be no more than truths for us — truths I
regulating our mental processes and controlling our thoughts, 1 , .
but not necessarily holding good for the universe external {
to us. But this objection is futile, because, as we have
seen, what our minds declare is, not that a law exists \
and that we are passively unable to get beyond it, but I
that we actively and positively see that the law con- |
trols things external also. If anything whatever is de- |
clared to us, the real objective validity of the law is
declared to us. This objective validity is affirmed by our
consciousness as much as anything else is affirmed by it,
and if we are to accept the declarations of consciousness at
all — that is, if we are to rise out of utter and universal
scepticism — we must accept the whole of what each such
declaration tells us, and not gratuitously omit part of it
or transform it into something else. We have already \
seen, in our study of memory,* that our mind unques- ■
tionably has the power of knowing not only its own •'
states and laws, but also objective existences and condi-j •
tions, and has, further, the power of recognizing suchr"
existences and conditions as being actually objective exist-
ences and conditions. What our mind declares is, not that
we cannot think that a man's head has been really cut off,
and, at the same time, really remains on, but it declares
that, in a real world external to us, a man's head could
not at one and the same time be both cut off and not cut
off ; and it also affirms that every sane mind and every
being possessed of real intelligence must see that nowhere
and at no time could a man's head be both cut off and
not cut off at one and the same instant.

* See above, p. 36.

^

>:

J, ON TRUTH.

„„ ,^ I But if this truth is so self-evident and so supremely

IV hat pro- I >■ •'

dj'cesa certain, how is it that any one can have that vas^ue feeling

feeling of I ' -' _ & »

««t«r/aj«/)'| of doubt concerning' it, to which we adverted in the becrin-

aoout the I .

laTv. j ning of this chapter ? There are, in fact, three reasons for
this feeling of uncertainty. In the first place, the feeling
arises frnjIL^Viint of rpflpf^t-joji ; reflex mental activity being
~uhTamiliar to most men, and practice being needed for its
ready use. In the second place, the law i? expressed in
a^stxaLt-texms^nd it is not nearly so easy for the majority
// 1^ of men to see the truth of an abstract proposition as it is
^ i ^ to see the truth of the concrete instances from which such
abstract proposition has been derived. There is, however,
a third and yet more important reason for the uncertainty
which may be felt by those who, for the first time, meet
with the abstract expression of the law. This third reason
is _due,_to,.JJiat.. natural tendency of the mind, which was
noticed in our first chapter,* namely, the mind's tendency
to associate "a feeling of uncertainty" with " stateiaents
about what is remote." Now, nothing could be more
" remote " from us than " the most distant regions of
space," and " times anterior to the existence of the world." ,
It is no wonder, then, if this feeling of uncertainty is !
strongly called forth by a reference to such very remote '
conditions in connection with a law expressed with the i
most absolute and universal certainty. But it has been 1
shown, in the first chapter, that we are to be guided in our
judgments, not by such things as associated feelings, but
by the " self-evidence " to our intellect of any proposition
it recognizes as a fundamental truth ; and that if a pro-
position is vouched for by that test, it can have no higher.
If we were to doubt such a proposition, we should thereby
cut the ground from under all certainty whatever.

(Knowledge It is iudccd a wonderful thing that we should be able to

o/ universal « , ,

trMtin not kuow auy absolute, necessary and universal truths, but never-
exce/itton- i i i • r i •

ally won. thcless this faculty is not so exceptionally wonderful as it at
der/ul. r • \ t /- i

first sight may appear. In fact, our knowledge of universal

and necessary truth is not really more mysterious than is the

rest of our knowledge. How we get any knowledge at all,

how we see objects, how we feel anything, is most myste-

* See above, p. 6.

HOME TRUTHS. 45

rlous, and all our knowledge, deeply considered, is very
wonderful. On the occurrence of certain changes in our
bodies, induced by surrounding agencies, we experience
"sensations." Through such sensations (actual and remem-
bered) " ideas " are aroused in us, and we perceive what
we know to be " external objects." Through our own
actions, and by things done to us, we recognize, as was
lately shown, both our "feelings" and our own "con-
tinuously existing self." Nothing can be more wonderful
than our faculty of memory, which gives us absolutely
certain knowledge of a continuously existing being — our
own personality — the continuousness of which it is im-
possible for our senses to perceive. Just as we have the
power of knowing that personality, so we have the power
of perceiving universal and necessary truths when the
occasions of knowing them are present. We learn them
through experience, as we learn other truths. As, when
a mental image arises in our memory, we may become
aware it represents a past experience, so, on a given truth
entering our minds, we may become aware that it is a
necessary one. There is really no more difficulty or
mystery in the mind's perceiving that nothing can both
be and not be, than there is in our knowing that we have
I been to Scotland if we have been there, or that a sensa-
, tion we have is one of warmth when such is the case. The
\ fact is so, and we perceive it to be so ; and the act by
\ which we do this is no more really marvellous in one case
' than in another ; or, rather, every act of knowledge is
; alike marvellous. We know things, and we know that we
know them. How we know them is a mystery indeed,
but one about which it is idle to speculate, as it is abso-.
lutely insoluble. The mystery of intellectual knowledge I
runs parallel to the mystery of sensation ; we feel things
savoury, or odorous, or brilliant, or melodious, as the case
may be ; and, with the aid of the scalpel and the micro-
scope, we may investigate the material conditions of such
sensations. But how such conditions can give rise to the
feelings themselves, is a mystery which defies our utmost
efforts to penetrate. Yet, because we cannot discover this,
we never doubt our sensations, and we have as little reason

46

ON TRUTH.

Second
general
princifJe, an
a.xioi>i nlh'ul
equality.

/

to doubt our perceptions of necessary, self-evident truths. I
To doubt them is not to be exceptionally intellectual, but ■
exceptionally foolish. It is to commit intellectual suicide,
and sink — as we have seen — into the proximately idiotic
condition of absolute scepticism.

Let us now turn to the second of the two abstract general
principles given as examples in the first chapter, which
was the axiom that "things which are equal to the same
thing are equal to each other." As with the former
principle (the law of contradiction), so here, if any one
has a vague feeling of doubt, his best course will be to
think of concrete instances of it. If, for example, two
pieces of wood are each found to be just equal in length
to a third piece, which is a yard measure, he cannot doubt
that the length of the two will be equal, as they will both
be just a yard long. Having thought of a variety of such
instances of different kinds of equality, let him again con-
sider the abstract law (which is the common expression
of the whole of them), and see if it is not evident to his
mind that this equality between the equals of a third
thing, must positively always and everywhere exist. In
our perception of the truth of this law, some other very
fundamental perceptions are necessarily involved, as will ;
become obvious at a slight glance of the mind inwards
upon itself Thus it is obvious that this law, as it concerns I
equality generally, must concern every kind of equality
— equality not only between "quantities," but between
" qualities " and " relations " also. Two children of the
same mother are equally her children, and if she feels an
equal love for the two, then each is beloved as much as
is the other. It may seem superfluous to state distinctly
such mere truisms, but in the pursuit of truth the inquirer
has nothing to guide him but his perception that a state-
ment is evidently true, and it is, therefore, necessary to
make very sure with respect to each and every step he
takes. Things which agree together in quantity, quality,
or relation, are so far alike, while they cannot be thought
of as " alike " unless they are also thought of as existino-
and yet distinct ; since nothing can really be said to be
like itself. Thus in this axiom we have involved the ideas

HOME TRUTHS. 47^^

"distinctness," "similarity," and "existence" — ideas which
will occupy us hereafter,* and which we shall come to see
are of the most fundamental character.

But the principle about the equality between things equal a fallacious

to something else, being an axiom of Euclid, leads us on to

consider an objection which has been made to our reposing

confidence in what our minds seem to tell us about the

necessary truths of geometrical laws. Creatures have been

imagined living on the surface of a sphere, and devoid of

thickness, so that they coincide with that surface, and are

able to have experience of length and breadth in curves, but

none of heights or depths, or of any straight lines. To such \

creatures, it has been said, our geometrical necessary truths /

would not appear " truths " at all. To such creatures " a

straight line " could not be, as it is for us, the shortest of

all lines, and two parallel lines, if prolonged, would, for

them, enclose a space. Therefore the truths which appear

to us to be necessary geometrical truths, cannot really be

such. To this fanciful objection it may be replied that

beings so extraordinarily defective might likely enough

be unable to see geometrical truths plainly perceptible to

more perfect beings such as ourselves, but that if they

could conceive of such things as our "straight" and

" parallel " lines at all, then there is nothing to show that

they would not also perceive those very necessary truths

concerning them which are evident to us. Moreover, the

very men who make this fanciful objection, actually show,

by making it, that they themselves, in fact, perceive the

necessary truth of those geometrical relations the necessity

of which they would verbally deny. For how otherwise

could they affirm what would or would not be the necessary

results attending such imaginary conditions ? How could

they confidently declare what perceptions such conditions

would certainly produce, unless they were themselves

absolutely convinced of the validity of the laws regulating

the experiences of such beings, and of the certain truth

of their own perceptions concerning the actions of such

laws } If they affirm the absolute truth of their own

representations, they must think that they perceive (and

* See below, ch. x , "Perceptions, Ideas, and Sensations."

48

ON TRUTH.

Third
general
principle,
the law of
causation.

they must therefore impHcitly assert the existence of)
absolute, necessary truth, or else their own argument itself
falls to the ground.

Amongst the most constantly recurring experiences
of everyday life are, in the first place, perceptions of effects
produced by one thing on another ; and, in the second
place, inquiries after the causes which may have brought
about some occurrence, or the consequences which may
follow from it. Somehow or other, whatever may be the
reason or origin of it, it is a fact that the notion of
"causes" which act, and "effects" which follow from their
action, is embedded in our minds, and ever ready to spring
up and show itself Now, this notion of " cause " has led
some persons to assert it to be a law of the universe that
" every existence must have a cause," and to further affirm
that our own minds tell us that such is and must be the
case. With good reason, however, it has been replied not
only that many persons, after the most careful scrutiny,
affirm that they have no internal witness of this kind, but
also that the assertion itself must be false, since if every
existence has a cause, then God, if he exists, must also
have a cause, and that cause must have another cause, and
so on for ever. Nevertheless, though our minds are far
from seeing the evident truth of the assertion, " everything
has a cause," yet we do perceive something or other about
causation. Now, if we examine our minds as to what this
something is — what they look out for in this respect — it
will, we believe, appear that when some change occurs, or
when anything strikes us as being a new thing, we always
spontaneously look out for its cause. What our minds really
seem to us to declare about causation, is in harmony with
this natural habit of mankind, and may be thus expressed :
" Every new existence is due to some cause." Such a law,
or principle, is of course incapable of proof, but its self-
evidence is made clear to us both spontaneously and on
reflection. It is made clear spontaneously by our very
habit of looking for, or recognizing the need of, some cause
with respect to any change in things already existing, and
for anything which we may recognize as having newly
come into being. It is also made clear to us by reflection |

HOME TRUTHS. 49

as follows : It is manifest that what does not even exist, 1
cannot act. Every cause, then, must be something which |
exists, and whatever does not exist cannot be a cause./
Therefore anything which comes newly into being cannotf
be caused by itself, because it could not have acted beforelj
it was. It must, then, have been brought into being by'
the agency of something else which was its cause. Every
change in a thing which already exists is also, to a certain
extent, itself a new existence, since it is a new mode of
existence. It cannot, therefore, have been produced by
itself, because it is a new mode, and it cannot be a cause
before it comes into being at all. It must, then, be due
either to some distinct existence, or to some other mode
of existence of a thing which already exists. Thus if a
door which was open is now shut, it must have been shut
by something else — a current of air or what not. If a cat
is now awake which was asleep, this must be due either
to something external which has awakened it, or to some
vital action of its own frame, which has aroused it from
its dormant state.

Again, all and every object made known to us by our \
senses is seen to be necessarily the product of some cause /
or causes external to itself. This is, of course, most mani- /
festly the case with every product of human art ; but no
stone which we tread on, or no patch of sand or mud, can
have come to be as it is, without antecedent causes and con-
ditions which made it as it is and not otherwise. Not only
the more or less complex structure of any solid body, but
its size, position, divisibility, and its existence at the time
it does exist, are all due to antecedent actions of other
things which determined its various conditions of existence.
Even a portion of matter which, so far as we know, is not
made up of other material substances — such, e.g., as a
diamond or a piece of gold — demands a cause for its
relations to things around, and for its own size and internal
minute conditions ; and the latter two circumstances would
demand a cause for their being as they might happen to
be, even if such a body existed alone by itself in the
universe. Everything, then, which can be seen not to have
a sufficient cause of its own existence within itself, must

50

ON TRUTH.

be due to some cause or causes external to it. Only some-
thing which is absolutely simple, indivisible, and eternal,'
can escape from this law of universal causation. This
perception of the need of a cause, is not a mere negative
condition, due to an impotence on our part to imagine a
thing we have never experienced. It is a positive percep-
tion. Let the reader test this for himself Let him
examine his own mind and see whether, when he considers
the shape of a stone, he finds himself passively and blindly
compelled also to imagine something fashioning it, or
whether he does not actively and positively perceive that
its shape, etc., must have been due to some antecedent
cause or causes.

Idea of _ / It may be well here at once to direct attention to a very

or"/orce:\ fundamental notion which is implied in the foregomg

judgment, namely, the notion of "power" or "force."

That such a thing exists we know through the exercise

of our own bodily force, or power, and by our power of

will. The idea of power is a primary, ultimate idea, which

cannot by any mental dissection or self-examination be

reduced to more fundamental constituent ideas. Such is

the writer's conviction. If the reader thinks otherwise, let )

him try and ascertain of what more fundamental ideas the

idea " power " consists.

An objection^ But thc objcctivc validity of our perception as to the

answer. junivcrsal truth of the law of causation has been denied on the

Aifollowing grounds : "We have often enough seen one thing
jor event follow another, but we have never once perceived
/ I any inflow of influence of one thing into another ; and yet
y/| the law of causation implies the existence of such a thing.
I We have never really seen or felt ' causation,' but only
\ sequences of one kind or another. Therefore there is pro-
bably nothing but sequence, and our idea of the inflow of
influence in causation is a mere mistake derived from
foolishly transferring in imagination to external things, that
' feeling of effort' which we experience in our own actions,
such mistake being then perpetuated by custom." But this
objection admits of a ready answer : It is quite true that
we never see or feel physical causation itself, for the very
good reason that it is invisible and intangible. But although

HOME TRUTHS. 5 I

our senses cannot perceive it, our intellect may ; and there /
i? one instance at least wherein the inflow and action of
causation is distinctly perceptible to us. This is our per-.,
ception of the inflow of the influence of motives.upoii.OiUL
will. When we resolve from some motive to perform
an act, we are conscious not merely of the existence of
that antecedent state of things, which is named "a
motive," and of that consequent which is our " resolve,"
but also of the motive as something- urging us. We know
and feel that it is active, and exerting an influence upon
us; that it emits, as it were, a force stirring our will. We
have also an experience of the force of causation when
anything resists our will. In the latter case the influence
is antagonistic to an act of will already formed ; in the
former case, the influence excites towards the formation
of such an act of will. So much may be said here in
reply to this objection, but we might have adequately met
it by simply repeating what was stated so fully in the
first chapter concerning the pursuit of truth itself. It was
there pointed out, with respect to fundamental truths, that
what we have to ask is, not how we came to know them, f;
but whether they are evidently true ; not how their truth | ;"
can be proved, but whether they are self-evident and need I
no proof With respect to the " law of causation," we
I have seen that its truth is borne in upon us by its own
evidence, not only spontaneously in each instance of it
which comes under our notice, but on reflection also ; and
the more we reflect, the more we see the evident truth and
universal, objective * necessity of the law that every new
existence is due to some cause, which is as certain as is
the law of contradiction itself; for if that which has as
yet no existence could nevertheless be a cause, then it
would no longer be the case that nothing can at the same
time both be and not be. The declaration of our minds
(both spontaneously and on reflection) tells us little about
the nature of that cause to which every new existence
must be due, save that it must be, in each case, adequate
to produce the effects it has produced. Such a cause may
itself be some change or new existence, or it may be some-

* See above, p. 43, for a reply to a sceptical objection.

/.

52 ON TRUTH.

thing of indefinite stability and duration ; as, e.g., a collision
between two sidereal bodies may be due to the past ex-
istence during an unimaginable time of two such bodies
proceeding along paths which ultimately coincide.

After this preliminary inquiry in quest of some self-
evident, fundamental truths, we may proceed to address
ourselves to the consideration of the self-evident force of
some argfuments.

( S3 )

CHAPTER V.

REASONING.

Ratiocination can make things known to us which were before un-
known, by rendering knowledge actual and explicit, which was
before but latent and implied. Such processes of reasoning are
valid and absolutely trustworthy.

So/ne reasoning must be valid — Inference denied to (lie syllogism —
Shoivji to exist by examples — The syllogism makes implicit truth
explicit — Difference between implicit knozvledge a7id actual know-
ledge— A gerieral principle may be more evident than a concrete
example — Force of the word " tJierefore " — Logic — Inference i7n-
plies imperfection of the intellect.

As we remarked towards the end of the first chapter,*
no one who himself argues, or who listens to or reads,
with any serious intention, the arguments of other men,
can, without stultifying himself, profess to think that no
process of reasoning is valid. If the truth of no mode oi some
reasoning is certainly true, if we can make no valid ''nntsTle^
inference, then all arguments must be useless, and to '^"^'"^'
proffer or to consider them, alike vain. A forced abstinence
from reasoning, due to such doubt, would, however, carry
with it yet more disastrous consequences ; for if we doubt j
about one self-evident truth, we may doubt about all, and ■
we should thus be landed once more in that absolute seep- (
ticism we have seen to be so self-destructive and irrational, i
But the truth of the " inference " that any given man will \
die, provided it be true that mortality is the lot of all ^
men, is a statement the truth of which is self-evident. No
one can possibly deny its truth, though some persons will

* See above, p. 12.

54

ON TRUTH.

Inference
denied to
the syllo-
gism.

Shown to
exist ly
exa?!!jles.

deny that it contains any process of " inference." In order |
to see whether this is the case, let us draw out formally, !
for examination, the old stock example of the syllogism —
with its major and minor premisses, and its conclusion — ';
thus : " All men are mortal. Socrates is a man, therefore '■
Socrates is mortal." Those who object to such reasoning
say, " Whoever has said that ' all men are mortal,' has
already said that ' Socrates is mortal ' also. The so-
called ' conclusion,' is therefore but a repetition of part
of the major premiss, ' all men are mortal.' Here, then,
we really have no inference at all, but merely a restate-
ment. We do not in truth ' conclude ' that Socrates is
mortal, but we only say over again, with the mention of
his name, what was said before without the mention of his
name."

/ To test the force of this objection, let us see, by an

I example, what our meaning is when we declare that any

! one object belongs to a certain class of objects. Persons

I ignorant of zoology may fancy that a whale is a fish, but a

■ knowledge of these matters is now so general that few will

; be surprised to read the statement that "a whale is a

^Jhipa<;t " Now, when we make this statement, what do we

; mean ? We mean that a whale, in spite of its shape and

*exclusivelv marine mode of life, is nevertheless more

closely allied in its nature to such creatures as cattle, beasts

of prey, etc., than it is to any fishes. Even if we are

zoological experts, we do not, in saying "A whale is a

beast," distinctly advert in our minds to all those various

anatomical conditions which characterize the class of

beasts, but only to the fact of the predominance in its

organization of the marks which distinguish that class of

animals. We can if we choose, however, turn back our

mind, and mentally, or verbally, refer to any one of such

marks, or characters, and recognize the fact that the whale,

inasmuch as it belongs to the class of beasts, must have that

particular character so referred to, out of those various

marks which are common to the whole class. Thus we /

may say to our.selves, or others, "The whale, being a beast,'

must have warm blood." In this manner we bring forward

into explicit recognition a character, the existence of which

REASONING. 55

in the whale was implied in saying it was a beast, but
which, nevertheless, was not distinctly present to the mind,
may never have been even thought of before, and there-
fore never actually known — for we cannot be said to know
what is not anB never has been present to the mind. In Thesyiio-
i saying, then, "All beasts have warm blood, JThe^whale is a implicit
Jifiae+T+iTerefore the whale has warm blood," a new fact is expudt.
brought distinctly and explicitly iDefore consciousness
which previously was but latent, and so the conclusion of.
the syllogism does impart knowledge. Thus the syllogism \
affords fresh knowledge to the mind by bringing about the \
explicit recognition of a truth which before was implicitly \^
contained in an assertion to the effect that a certain object \
belongs to a class which has certain attributes. This /
process of bringing out into clear recognition a matter
which before was latent, is a process of " inference " the
whole force of which resides in, and is expressed by, the
word " th^eiJQi'ej" as we shall shortly more clearly see.
Let us suppose a person to be looking at some very flexible
and soft kind of fish. He may perhaps say to himself, •
" This creature cannot have any spinal column in it."
Then it may strike him that naturalists have classed fishes, ,
together with various other animals, in a great group, one
character of which is the possession of a spinal column.
He will then further say to himself, " Since it is a fish,
it must, however soft and flexible it may be, have a spinal \
column." Thus he will really obtain by inference the '
knowledge of a new truth. It may, however, be further
objected that by our explanation we have admitted the
major premiss to implicitly contain the conclusion. But
this further objection, to have any force, must be under-
stood as saying in effect that implicit and explicit know-
ledge are, at least practically, the same thing. For if Difference

1 ■ • 1 II))' 11 r betiuetn ijn-

"implicit knowledge is not actual knowledge, a IdiCt pi'dt know

, . . , . , ,, . . . . , iecige and

implicitly contained in a major premiss is none the more actual
"actually known" on account of its being so contained
therein ; and manifestly anything which makes " actually
known" what before was not actually known, must con-
vey fresh knowledge. There is, indeed, so great a differ-
ence between explicit and implicit knowledge that the

V

56 ON TRUTH.

latter may not really deserve to be called " knowledge " at
all. A little consideration will, we think, make this clear
beyond all dispute. No one will venture to affirm that a
student merely learning the axioms and definitions of
Euclid, will, by having done so, have become at once
acquainted with all the geometrical truths the work con-
tains, so that he will have no need to study its various
propositions and theorems, all of which he will thus know
without having once read them. Yet all the propo-
sitions about circles, triangles, etc., in his " Euclid "
are implicitly contained in the definitions and axioms. ,
Although, then, he knows that mass of geometric truths
implicitly, in knowing the definitions and axioms, he does 1
not, for all that, really and actually know them at all. In |
order that he may come actually to know them he must go 1
through those various processes of " inference " by which 1
the different truths implicitly contained in Euclid's defi-
nitions and axioms are brought to the student's knowledge
explicitly. There would be much more weight in the
assertion that the conclusion of a syllogism is contained in
1 the major premiss, if that premiss were a truth which had
i been arrived at by an examination of every single instance
; of the kind referred to in it.' For example, if every tree in
' a certain garden had been examined, and found to be a
conifer, then the assertion, "All the trees in that garden
are conifers," would be a truth of that kind. It would have .
been the result of an examination of every fact referred to —
or, in other words, it would have been arrived at by what
is called "a complete induction." In a syllogism with a
proposition of this kind for its major premiss — e.g. "All
the trees in the garden are conifers. This tree is a tree in
the garden, therefore this tree is a conifer " — the conclusion
is not contained in that premiss in a merely implicit
manner. It is, however, very rarely the case that the
major premiss expresses a truth arrived at by a complete
induction, and in some sciences, and these chiefly the exact
sciences, it is never so. In most cases we arrive at the

general principle of our argument — the major premiss

from a consideration of but a few, sometimes but one or
two, instances. Thus no one can pretend we know that

REASONING. 57

" the angles of a triangle are together equal to two right
angles," by a complete induction — by an examination of
every existing triangle. The examination of a very few
triangles suffices to make us aware of that general law. If,
then, our attention is directed to a certain triangular figure,
and we are asked, "Are its angles equal to two right
angles ? " we shall not be able at once to answer the ques-
tion by any direct and immediate perception of the figure
as a figure. We can do so, however, indirectly and
mediately, through recognizing that it is a triangle, if \\q
already know that the angles of such a figure are always
together equal to two right angles. Here, then, we know
the conclusion by the help of a major premiss.

There is yet another consideration. As a general vu\e '^a general
J } the truth of abstract principles is best brought home to VLSimayutwre

li • ^ !• c i_*j_ • •j_i evident than

' . by a consideration of some concrete instances in "^oxvA.^ a concrete
/ ■ We have thus, for example, made use of various suclij'^"^'"'^''''
'" instances to illustrate the truth of the principle of contra-j
diction and other abstract, fundamental principles, li
sometimes, liowever, happens, on the other hand, that aii
abstract general principle is more evident than is a con-^
Crete example of it. Thus, let us suppose we are inquiring
whether some particular action will be a rightful action for
us to do, and that the circumstances connected with the
action are very involved and intricate. We may see
clearly that a variety of good results will follow from our
performing it, which will confer benefits on many people,
: and these results may so strike us that we may be dazzled
; by them, and led at first to think it our duty to do it. On
\ further consideration, however, we may see that the action
\ would be essentially an ungrateful action, while we are
•quite clear that ungrateful actions are wrong actions; and
so, by this latter consideration, we shall be led to decide
against performing it. Here, then, it is our perception of
the relation existing between a particular action and a
general principle condemning ingratitude, that enables us
to form a clear judgment about the matter, and to decide
against performing the action. In such cases it is manifest
that the major premiss of a syllogism does bring know-
ledge to our minds.

58 aV TRUTH.

Force ft/te\ The objectioiis to syllogistic reasoning which have been
fore:' "'"", now considered, appear, then, to be devoid of all solid
foundation, and to be mistaken and misleading. The
self-evidence of the proposition that some reasoning is
valid, on the other hand, plainly shows itself. It shows
itself in that idea of the mind which we express by the
word " therefore/' When we use the word " therefore," we
'^mean to express by it that there is a truth, the certainty
of which is shown through the help of different facts or
principles which themselves are known to be true. A
slight examination of our own mind will show us that
there are many things which become known to us as a
consequence of our knowing other things. Thus, from an
examination of the composition, content.s, and surroundings
of a piece of rock, we may come to know that ages ago
it formed part of the bed of the sea. The greater part,!
indeed, of the knowledge we acquire throughout our whole!
life, is acquired in this indirect way. This process of gain-
ing knowledge indirectly, is the process of " inference," or
"drawing conclusions," and the idea expressed by the word
" therefore " is contained, whether expressed or not, in
every such inference made and conclusion drawm.

Logic. We are here only concerned to make it clear to the

reader that some processes of inference are valid, and not
to point out to him what processes of inference are valid.
It is the task of logic to show what are the rules for draw-
ing such inferences — whether the inferences are (as in the
syllogism) "deductions" as to particular facts, which are
inferred from more general truths, or "inductions" as to
general laws, which are inferred from particular facts.
Logic points out the laws which govern legitimate deduc-
tion and induction, because deduction and induction are
V / two departments of human mental activity ; for logic may
'f be considered as being both the "science" of the laws of
thought, and the " art " directing the fit, practical application
of those laws. To obtain guidance, therefore, in the matter
of drawing inferences, the reader is referred to the various

Inference spccial works dcvotcd to the exposition of logic. But we

impliis im- . . , . ,

perfection 0/ 2.XG. torccd, by our mental constitution, to obtain the greater

theinttUcct. - / , , , . ., . , ° ,

part ot our knowledge — as before said — in this roundabout

REASONLYG. 59

way, i.e. by processes of inference. Were our intellect of
a much higher order, it is conceivable that we might be
able to see equally well, and, at the same time, all those
truths which a proposition may contain implicitly as well
as explicitly, and all those general laws which particular
facts may signify. In that case there would be, of course,
no process of inference for us. All those truths we are
at present compelled to laboriously gather indirectly, by
inference, would then be directly evident to us, just as our
own activity and as self-evident fundamental truths are self-
evident to us now. Having, however, the relatively im-
perfect natures we have, we must be content with such
roundabout, though practically sufficient, methods as those
expressed by our valid processes of reasoning. We must
be content to change implicit truths into actual knowledge
by placing propositions side by side, so that by such juxta-
.position we may be able to see explicitly, truths, otherwise
jinvisible to us, which lie hidden beneath them. They are
f thus brought to the surface, and seen by us to be " therefore "
' true.

Reasoning, then, is a process which is to be trusted in

confidently, when carried on logically according to the

laws of thought. It is not, however, and cannot be,

the highest kind of act of which our intellect is capable.

Such highest act is that by which it recognizes truth

directly, without adventitious aid — as when it perceives

self-evident facts, and those fundamental principles which

we have seen also carry with them their own evidence, and

need no proof

j Enough has, we trust, here been said in support of the

i conviction — so continually acted on by us without reflec-

\ tion — that some processes of reasoning are valid. We will

next proceed to pass in review certain other convictions

which are the common property of mankind.

6o ON TRUTH.

CHAPTER VI.

ASSERTIONS AND BELIEFS.

Human testimony and common sense may afford grounds for j
absolute certainty. -^

Vulgar opinion may be very inistaken or absolutely true — Human
testimony — Common sense — Conditiotis necessary to its tnist-
ivorthiness — Grounds of certainty — Uniformity of Nature — Re-
capitulation of the section^ s contents.

Vulvar Amongst the convictions respecting matters of every-

opiuioti may , , . - . j. o

be very mis- day life vvhicli are common to men generally, are many
ahsoiutety which arc due to, and rest entirely upon, the assertions
of their fellows. Many other convictions seem also to
occur to them naturally, without their being able to give
any account of them or to defend them, except by saying
^omrnon sense shows ^hey must be true." But that there
are a multitude of vulgar errors current amongst men, and
that egregious credulity is far from uncommon, are both
notorious facts. So it may, at first sight, seem reasonable
for him who would inquire after what things are the most
certain, to leave on one side matters of mere popular opinion
and vulgar common sense, as being of a nature too uncer-
tain to deserve his notice. But to be guilty of such neglect
would be to make a very great mistake ; for propositions
of the kind may be matters of complete and absolute
I certainty and therefore must receive some attention from
j,' the student of truth. Human testimony, and the spon-
/^ taneous judgments of uneducated men, may, under special
/ circumstances, both carry with them evidence, to every
well-balanced mind, of their absolute veracity.

(^

ASSERTIONS AND BELIEFS. 6 1

Let us first consider hunian testimon}^ That an amount Human

c 1 I'l 1 ' -iriii testimony.

oi credence which, to us moderns, seems itseli hardly
credible, was given in uncritical ages to written and spoken
assertions respecting matters of the utmost moment, is a
fact with which we are all familiar. Persons who, in the
exercise of their profession, have been accustomed to weigh
evidence, generally agree that an absolutely correct narra-
tion by any witness of a series of events is extremely rare.
The untrustworthiness of statements about natural phe-
nomena made by ignorant persons, often becomes ludi-
crously evident to the man of science, and the main task
of our historians is, by careful^^iticism, to get rid of
prevalent delusions due to the mendacity, credulity, or
stupidity of their predecessors. In spite of this, no
reasonable and well-informed person will deny that he can
be forced to believe, with absolute certainty, many matters
about which he may have no evidence but that of human
testimony. Thus, such a person will not doubt that there
was, in 1870, a Franco-German war, or that a revolution
took place at Paris in 1848, or that the battle of Waterloo
was fought in 181 5, and so on. No such person, again, will
say he is uncertain whether Sicily is an island ; or whether
there is a country called Canada ; or whether Berlin is
the capital of Prussia. When a variety of witnesses of
different ages, classes, and interests, uniformly and per-
sistently agree in certtfying-to a fact not in itself incredible,
and one within their competence to testify to, it would be
unreasonable to doubt it. For though errors of observa-
tion are common enough, 3'et a number of people thus
differing from each other are not likely simultaneously to
fall into the very same error of observation ; and though
many men are liars, yet, in the absence of any common
interest, such a variety of people will not concur in tellin''"
the same lie. Individuals are liars, and conspiracies to lie
are too frequent ; but the majority of men do not habitually
lie. There is, therefore, a certain probability in favour of
the truth of any ordinary assertion, and this probability
■ rapidly increases according to the number and condition
:i of the witnesses who may add their testimony to it.

It has been objected to this last assertion that the

62

ON TRUTH.

Crtnmon
sense.

testimony of one witness can only be " probably " true, and
therefore the testimony of many witnesses can also be only
"probable," since no number of mere "probabilities"
added together can make a " certainty," which is a matter
of a different kind. But this objection is groundless, for
the following reason : the absence of certainty which we
may feel with respect to the evidence of one witness, is not
necessarily due to any defect on his part, but may spring
from our ignorance as to the possibilities of mistake and
unveracity, in any single case. These possibilities, how-
ever, rapidly diminish with the increase in number and
variety of the independent testimonies borne to any one
event, on account of the increasing improbability of a
general, simultaneous delusion or deceit. It is, therefore,
absolutely impossible for all men to unite in telling one
and the same lie — indeed, the idea is so absurd that it may
seem superfluous to refer to it ; but the reference has its
utility, as will appear later on.*

The amount and readiness of credence to be given to
assertions, varies with the nature of the assertions and the
circumstances of the witnesses, according to rules laid down
in special treatises devoted to that subject. What concerns
us here is, not any inquiry about what testimony we are to
accept, or how we are to test it, but simply the recognition
of the fact that human testimony may, under special cir-
cumstance, afford amply sufficient grounds for absolute
and complete certainty.

Let us next consider those convictions which are said
to be due to " common sense." Such judgments are not
the result of any conscious reasoning process. They are
not reflex mental acts,t and do not refer to abstractions,
but are clear, direct judgments about definite matters of
fact. They, to a certain extent, resemble the instinctive
perceptions of animals, and, as is the case with such per-
ceptions, are not peculiar to individuals, but are the common
property of the race. Any ordinary, uneducated men, if
asked whether the sun may not begin to ascend on some
afternoon instead of setting, or whether winter may not come
before Michaelmas Day instead of after, will probably think
* See below, ch. xvii., " Ideas of Existence," etc. f See above, p. 3.

'///

ASSERTIONS AND BELIEFS.

that their questioner is either joking or insane, but they
will not hesitate as to their own convictions about the sun
or the seasons. If pressed to say why they are so certain
about such things, they will be pretty sure to reply that
to doubt them would be against " common sense." It
does not follow that there are not very good reasons for
such common sense judgments — reasons which can be
logically drawn out — because the men who make the judg-
ments cannot so draw them out. For example, with respect /
to the sun and the seasons, they might, if better educated,
appeal to " the theory of probabilities," " the principle of
causality," and " the laws and conditions of the solar
system." Thus the judgments of "common sense " may be
well grounded and thoroughly scientific, although those
who judge do not see how they are so. It is, indeed, this
character of being well grounded, without any distinct,
conscious knowledge on the part of those who so judge
of the grounds of their judgment, which makes them judg-
ments of " common sense." Now, there is a consideration
due to recent advances in science, which greatly enhances
the value of "common sense," and should specially incline
evolutionists to rely on it. We refer to that theory,
according to which, the spontaneous tendencies of the
individual are the outcome of the past experience of the
race and of the various different ancestors of the race.
Thus considered, common sense will be seen to enshrine
something much greater than the opinion of the individual.
It may, then, justly demand respectful consideration (though
not slavish subjection), as being the expression of the judg-
ment '6r~many generations of men. Nevertheless, the
number of vulgar errors is so great that it is obvious we
i cannot feel any certain conviction about a "common sense "
I judgment, except under special circumstances, however
much we may be disposed — owing to the consideration just
mentioned — to accord it a respectful preliminary hearing.
Thus no such judgment can__be_jDf the least
relates to any matter about which ordinary
not at once agree. For an opinion cannot be " common
to mankind if the spontaneous judgments of a section of
the unreflecting decide against it. It would not invalidate

diy licciiuig.

; value if it Conditions \
, , necessary to I

men womd its trust- I

,, ,, worthiness. /

64// ON TRUTH.

such a judgment, however, if it should be opposed to the
views of some speculative philosopher, for such men, as we
have seen, have denied the possibility of self-knowledge, and
even the principle of contradiction. Secondly, the subject
of common assent must not be one of too special a nature
^ to be a fit matter for the uneducated to judge about.
Jj^ Obviously if the subject is one not within the reach of un-
educated minds, and not such as plain men may judge of,
their judgments about it cannot merit confidence. But
though men may arrive at practically true judgments
without going through a conscious process of reasoning,
no judgment which is contrary to reason can be true,
however it may be arrived at. Therefore, in order that
any common sense judgment should be accepted as cer-
tainly true, it must be able to stand any test of reason, and
must overcome any attempt on our part by reflection to
resist or avoid it. Lastly, a common sense judgment, in
order to be regarded as certain, should concern some
matter of real importance, or be connected more or less
j closely with the conduct of life. It should be so connected
if we are to regard it as the product of the constant expe-
rience of antecedent races of mankind ; for no trifling or
unpractical matter could thus constantly impress itself
^ forcibly and uniformly on human consciousness. If, how-
ever, all these conditions are fulfilled — if, that is to say,
a "common sense" judgment is (i) acquiesced in by
Ir\ all ordinary men, (2) refers to some simple matter, (3)
*^^ stands the test of reason, and (4) has to do with the conduct
/^ of life, then we think it affords one means of certainty.
Thus such judgments as, " If a dozen men fire at a target
with their eyes shut they will not all hit the centre,"
or, " If a quantity of printer's type is thrown hap-hazard
on the ground, it will not so fall as to form a set of verses,"
will, we think, be accepted by the reader as judgments
which are perfectly certain, and he will probably only
object to them on the ground of their triviality. The
bringing forward of " trivial examples " and " truisms "
seems to us, however, the best, if not the only way of
meeting absurd objections, which, if acquiesced in, must
lead to absolute scepticism, and so hopelessly block the

ASSERTIONS AND BELIEFS. 65/

.way of the inquirer after truth. The trustworthiness, in
i special circumstances, of " testimony " and of "common
i sense" are two more facts, perceptions of the truth of
which are amongst those lying at the root of all our
knowledge. But the disciple of a scepticism much less
than "absolute," may profess complete indifiference to both
" testimony " and judgments of " common sense." The
scepticism here referred to is that which would doubt
or deny the existence of any external world independent
of the individual mind. It is plain that a man Who doubts
or disbelieves in the existence of his fellow-men, cannot
attach any importance to what may delusively appear to
be either their judgments or their testimony. To the con-
sideration of this special form of scepticism, termed Ttvf^/M-
ISM, the whole of the next section will be devoted, and it
is~^y way of anticipation of the conclusion to which we
believe that section will lead, that we venture here pro-
visionally to enumerate " testimony " and " common sense"
amongst our grounds of certainty.

These grounds or causes of fundamental certainty we (;>-^««</io/
have seen to belong to three orders of perceptions — per- '^^'^ ""' '''■
ceptions of particular facts, of general principles, and of t\
the force of certain arguments. In considering these three VX
orders of perceptions, we have first treated of two particular v
facts, namely : (i) self-knowledge, and (2) memory. In the
next place we have considered abstract general principles,
whereof the most important is (3) the law of contradiction.
Then we endeavoured to show the validity of certain
processes of (4) reasoning, or inference. Lastly, we have
argued that if the independent existence of the world
around us be accepted as a truth, then we have two other
motives of certainty less fundamental in nature, and which
are therefore motives in a subordinate degree. These are :
(5) testimony, and (6) common sense, the trustworthiness
of which are two additional facts (much less fundamental
than those of self-knowledge and memory), our apprehen-
sions of the validity of which lie, as before said, at the root
of human knowledge.

One of the most important truths which men are con- unifonmty
sciously or unconsciously possessed of, is that of the^

F

of Nature.

66/// ON TRUTH.

1^

" uniformity of Nature." It is manifest that in everyday
lif'e we feel perfect confidence that things will continue in
their wonted course. No one throwing up a ball fears that
it may never come down again, but spin away to the
moon or elsewhere. When we cannot perceive any change
in the circumstances attending some action which has often
taken place before, we feel sure that, the circumstances
remaining similar to what they were, the action will also be
like preceding actions of the same kind. This general
uniformity in the course of events is vouched for by the
common consent of mankind, and abundant testimony can
always be obtained that this uniformity has been ex-
perienced in the life of every person we may wish to con-
sult. Common sense does not say, and testimony cannot
affirm, that this uniformity is positively absolute, for we
cannot deny there may sometimes intervene unforeseen or
unknown powers or conditions. Nevertheless, the prac-
tical certainty that, given the same causes and conditions,
the same events will ensue, is universal and confident.
Moreover, a basis for this belief exists amongst those funda-
mental, necessary and universal truths which we have
already considered, namely, in the principle of causation.*
For any change demands a cause, and no change can
ensue without the occurrence of some adequate cause. If,
then, there is no difiference {i.e. no change of conditions)
between one set of antecedents and another, there can be
ry /no difference between the result in either case. Thus the
'' / fact of the uniformity of Nature, reposes both upon testimony
' I and common sense, as also upon that principle of causation
V which we have seen to be a truth evident in itself.

It is now our task, by the harmonious use of these facts
and principles, to go forward in our quest for truth, first
by endeavouring to show the reasonableness of the convic-
tion that an external world does really exist (a conviction
which all men spontaneously accept and act upon), and after- \
wards by examining what further leading truths we can f
elicit through the help of the study of those things we find I
to be revealed to us by the combined use of our senses,!
our imagination, and our intellect. I

* See above, p. 48.

/

fU

ASSERTIONS AND BELIEFS. 67^

AccorcHnfT to the argument carried on in this and the Rccapitu-

I , . . lation of ^/ie_^,^

five preceding chapters, it is evident that certamty exists sections /^j
and can be justified to reason, while it is no less clear that " ^^^

absolute scepticism is not only irrational but self-contra- "^^

dictory. Since everything cannot be proved, while yet
' some things are absolutely certain, it is manifest that there
must be truths which are self-evident and need no proof,
to believe which is the very reverse of blind belief, since
they are believed on the best evidence, namely, self-evidence,
than which no other or better test is even conceivably
possible for us. At the root of all certainty lie three orders
of truths supremely certain and self-evident — an order of j
facts, an order of principles, and an order of inferences.!
Tli£^primary fact is that of our own self-knowledge. We I f)-,^
'Vrhave direct knowledge of our own being in its activity, f// •
whence, by a reflex act, we may observe either our feelings 1
or our continued existence, and we may become as clearly |^
and certainly aware of one of these as of the other. Tlie.|
y second fact is that of the trustworthiness of the faculty of
V, memory, the denial of which would involve us in absolute^
■ scepticism, while its recognition shows us we can know
objective truth — namely, our own past. Amongst absolutely
^ . certain general principles, the most fundamental is ^\\f law
\\ • of contradiction — a law so fundamental that it is impossible
•'"'"'^ for any one really to deny it without thereby also asserting it.
Geometrical axioms and the law of causation are also truths
which are absolute and self-evident. That we should know I
the self-evidence of these things is wonderful, but not more |
wonderful than is every kind of knowledge. There are valid '
and absolutely certain processes of inference which make
latent truths manifest. It is plain that if we would reason,
or even think correctly, we must accept the practical ade-
quacy of speech to convey thought, and the validity of
inferences logically made. We must also admit the value,
under the requisite conditions, of human testimony, and
recognize the respect due to the common-sense judgments
I of mankind in ordinary, practical matters of everyday life,
t about which they may afford grounds for complete cer-
j tainty when submitted to various necessary, but easy and
I obvious tests.

SECTION II.

IDEALISM,

PAGE
CHAPTER ^i

VII. Idealism and Realism ...• ••• • >

VIII. Idealism and Science ••• ••• ^9

IX. The Key of the Position ••• ••• 7

97
X. Objections

XI. Idealism Old and New ... •■• ••• '3°

( 71 )

CHAPTER VII.

IDEALISM AND REALISM.
Explanation of these systems.

Need of studying " idealism " — What idealism is — Its attractiveness —
" Realism ''^—Method of procedure.

\ A DOUBT as to the real existence of the world about us ^^^^cdcf

\ must seem almost as startlingly unreasonable to him who '!f"^jl"fi,

'- hears of it for the first time, as the before considered doubt

! respecting our knowledge of our own existence. That the

I mountains and rivers of the earth, the plants which clothe

'■ its surface, its varied animal population, the busy, teeming

world of human life and our own very bodies, the showers

and breezes which refresh, the tempests which destroy, and

the sun, moon, and stars which variously illum.ine, all have

a real existence in themselves, independently of a mind

observing them,, seems at first a matter too 'certain and

obvious"to admit of a moment's dispute ; so that any one

who professes to disbelieve it, must be like a man who

believes his limbs are made of glass, and more or less of a

I lunatic. Yet illustrious men of a very high order of intel-

I lect, some of them distinguished philosophers and others

\ masters in physical science, have not only professed to

doubt this, but have even positively denied either that any

independent world exists at all, or that its existence can,

by any possibility, be known to us. These leaders of

thought have also had a multitude of disciples and followers,

and however much masters or pupils may have disagreed

in the details of their several views, yet all have had this/

in common — that they have followed what is called "thej

M

p//

72y^ ON TRUTH.

ideaHst x^hilosophy," according to which nothing can exist
independently of its being perceived, and nothing can be
known to us save " fee Hngs " and "ideas" — that is,...".dif-.,
ferent states of consciousness." IdeaHsm, then, however

unreasonable it may appear or may really be, demands
from the student of truth a very careful examination, in
deference to those who have adhered to it since it was first
propounded -by the estimable and ingenious Bishop Berke-
ley. Nevertheless, though so many men, and amongst
them so many distinguished men, have been idealists, we
must not forget that after all they form but a very small
fraction of mankind, when compared with the enormous
mass of human beings who have not been, and are not
" idealists." Moreover, the experience we have already
attained * in studying the question of " self-knowledge,"
may help to give us courage in combating the views of
men, who if they form so exceedingly small a minority, are
yet so eminent and so deservedly respected. In studying
the question about " self-knowledge," we saw how it is I
possible for very superior men to be so dazzled by certain!
truths they clearly see, as to be led to overlook other com
plementary truths, a perception of which is necessary in
order to avoid most fundamental error. Bearing in mind
this experience of ours, we ought to look very carefully at
every positive assertion of idealism, in order to see whether,
if true, there is not a danger of that truth being so under-
stood as to imply the denial of some other complementary
truth. We cannot suppose that eminent thinkers can mis-
take mere fiction for truth ; but, from our former experience,
we may deem it very possible for them to take an incomplete
view of truth. Should it turn out that such an incomplete,
and therefore fallacious, view of some fundamental proposi-
tion has gained acceptance, it would be no wonder that an
elaborate, false system should have been built up by acute
minds reasoning logically from false premisses. Neverthe-
less, no elaborate system of the kind would have found so
many supporters as Berkeley's idealism has found, unless
it had had some very special attractions. And, in fact,
idealism, as originally propounded, had three very great

* See above, p. i6.

IDEALISM AND REALISM.

7

attractions, while another special attraction attends a
modern modification of that system. The attractiveness
of idealism, and the fact that it concerns the whole universe
external to our own minds, thus combine to make it abso-
lutely necessary that it should be carefully and dispassion-
ately considered by us.

That system may be represented by a believer in it, as f^v^^t-
follows : " Everything known to us, except our own minds, — ■
is known to us through our senses. If we examine any
object, such, for example, as an orange, we can only know
it through the ' impressions ' or ' sensations ' which we have,
and which we believe it excites in us. We see a definitely
shaped patch of colour, and that is a sensation we have.
If we take the orange in our hand, we feel a certain
smoothness and coldness ; these are two other sensations
of ours. We may grasp it and slightly squeeze it, and so
feel that it is more or less solid and rounded ; and these
feelings are nothing but certain sensations of muscular
tension and effort on our part. We may tap it with the
ends of our fingers, or throw it on the ground, and so
occasion sounds, which again are nothing but sensations
we feel ; and in the same way, if we smell it and taste it,
, we shall thereby have two other kinds of sensations — two .
other states of our own mental being. We cannot, by ex-
amining any so-called material object, arrive at anything
more than modifications of our own mental states — different
feelings. Other feelings we have, indeed, of a less vivid
kind. These, however, are nothing but faint revivals of sen-
sations previously experienced, or feelings of the modes in
which such previously experienced feelings have stood one
to another. Such 'faint revivals' and 'faint feelings of
modes of sensation ' we call ' ideas.' These vivid and faint
"Feelings are the only things which can be perceived by us,
and the whole of our knowledge consists of nothing else.
Therefore, as far as we know, nothing exists, or can exist,
except as something felt and perceived. We cannot con-
ceive anything otherwise existing, and therefore the very
lessence of 'existence' must consist in 'being perceived.'

■ Evidently an 'idea' or a 'sensation' can be like nothing

■ but an idea or a sensation. A colour, taste, smell, or

/

74/, ON TRUTH.

shape, can be like nothing but a colour, taste, smell, or
shape. We can have no experience and no knowledge of
anything in any object, e.g. in an orange, which exists
underneath (so to speak) its extension, solidity, shape,
colour, smell, and taste, and which supports these qualities,
but which itself can never by any possibility be perceived.
,)-\ \Vlial— idealism denies, therefore, is not the existence of
]k . that which we really perceive and which we habitually call
V^ ' external things.' Itonly denies^the existence of a some4
thing underlying what we call external things, and whicl
fancied something, cannot be felt or attained to by any o
our senses. If when ordinary people speak of ' a thing in
itself,' they mean to refer- to what they actually perceive,
and which is really nothing but a bundle of sensations,
then they are idealists all the time without knowing it,
as idealism fully accepts the existence of such things in
themselves. Idealism does not contest the existence of
any one thing that we can apprehend either by sensation
or reflection. That things which we see with our eyes
and touch with our hands do really exist, it professes in
no way to question. It professes only to deny the ex-
istencein things of an unknown and unknowable under-
lying * substance ' which supports the qualities which our
sensed perceive. In denying the existence of this unknow-

%

able ' substance,' it really deprives men of nothing which
they can even imagine, and therefore of nothing which
they will really miss. If the word ' substance ' be taken,
in the vulgar sense, for a combination of separable quali-
ties, such as extension, solidity, weight, etc., this ideal- 1
ism cannot be accused of taking away. But if it be taken,,!'
in the philosophic sense, for something external to the ! -^
mind which supports those qualities, the existence of which i^
are recognized by the mind ; then idealism may be accused |
of taking that away, if one may be said to take away \
a thing which never had any existence even in the imagi- i
nation. Far from inculcating any disbelief in the senses ;
or in what the senses tell us, idealism attaches the highest
value to the senses and their teaching. It no more doubts
the existence of what is seen, heard, or felt, than it doubts
the existence of the mind which sees, hears, or feels.

IDEALISM AND REALISM. 75^.

■i

Nothing, therefore, can be more absurd than the criticisms
of those persons who say that idealists, to be consistent,
ought to run up against lamp-posts, fall into ditches, and
commit other absurdities of the kind. Idealism is not only
a thoroughly logical system, but also one quite in harmony
with everyday life, its perceptions, and its duties. It is
obvious that we can rLey.ei-g£^.-Qulaiiie_qurselv^^

^ly know our se:nsatiQiia..ami.Jdeas. The existence of
these sensations and ideas is sufficient to explain our whole
experience, and we are not idly to suppose that other
things exist when such ' other things ' are altogether super-
fluous for explaining any of the phenomena we are, or can |
become, acquainted with. As we cannot know anything
beyond our own ideas, why should we affirm that there is
anything beyond them } It is impossible for us to even
imagine anything existing unperceived. We cannot imagine
matter existing in the absence of mind, for in the very act
of imagining it we are compelled to imagine some one
perceiving it. It is, of course, easy enough to imagine trees
in a park or books in a library, and nobody by to perceive
them. But so to do, is only to form in the mind certain
ideas which we call books and trees and at the same time
to omit to form the idea of any one perceiving them. But
the person so imagining them must himself be thinking of
them all the while. To show, or even know, that anything
could exist independently of the mind, it would be necessary
to be able to perceive it while it remained unperceived, or
to think of it while at the same time it remained unthought
of, which would be a manifestly absurd contradiction and

i impossibility. Idealism thus does not contradict the asser-
tions of common sense, or cause any practical inconvenience
to him who holds to it, seeing that it only denies the
truth of what is, in fact, but a philosophical superstition —
a groundless and utterly superfluous belief in a necessarily
unknown and unimaginable substance, about which our
senses tell us absolutely nothing^

Such is idealism, as advocated by its supporters, and itsattrac-
from such a representation of its asserted claims on our
acceptance, it is easy to see how attractive it must be to
many minds. For, in the first place, it can be very readily

i

X"

y

<\\

76. ON TRUTH.

understood. No difficult and sustained acts of mental
introspection are needed for its comprehension. For this
it suffices to understand the distinction, ordinarily supposed
to exist, between "things" and their "qualities ;" to recog-
nize that no "things" can become known to us except
through their "qualities," and, lastly, to recollect that we
can only know their "qualities" by experiencing "sensa-
tions." These conditions being borne in mind, it becomes '|
obvious that if any supernatural being could play at will
and indefinitely on our sensitive powers, such a being, by
exciting certain sensations, could induce in us a mistaken
belief that external bodies existed, which bodies possessed
certain qualities. Secondly, idealism is attractive because
correct reasoning is welcome to our intellectual nature, and
most of its reasoning is very correct and logical, and follows
necessarily from what we believe to be the defective pre-
misses, and therefore fallacious assumption, with which it
starts. Thirdly, idealism is attractive because it seems
to carry its adherent into an intellectual region greatly
above that of common men, while all the time it causes
him no practical inconvenience, for he fancies himself able
to breathe and move in that elevated atmosphere as freely
as do those who "^rnvpl " in the common belief of the
independent existence of things about them. It seems
to cause him no practical inconvenience because it boasts
(though not with truth) that " it does not contradict the
assertions of common sense, but only denies the truth of
a philosophical superstition."

According to the teaching of the original propounder
of idealism, all our sensations and ideas are due to the
direct action of God upon our minds, and the whole
phantasmagoria we call the universe around us, is the .
product of the energy of the Divine Mind acting upon our \
minds. But Berkeley jsj^tem has not been adhered to in |
its purity, and^iTnovv hard'Iy'accepted by any one. Modi- j
fications of it which have of late become popular in 1
England, accept in one or other sense a sort of belief in
the independent existence of things about us, while denying
that we can have any true knowledge of them, and affirming
that we can know really nothing but variously grouped

'46.

IDEALISM AND REALISM.

bundles of our own feelings. This special modification
of idealism is peculiarly attractive to many men, because
it supplies them with sceptical arguments ready to hand
against any view they may wish to oppose, without their
feeling forced to apply the same sceptical arguments
against any system of physical science which they may be
inclined to favour. The peculiarly illogical character of
this form of idealism it will be our endeavour clearly to
point out in the eleventh chapter. r\

The opposite system to idealism — the truth of which Realism. ^^'
we will do our best to prove in the present section of this :^

work — may be stated as follows: "All the different bo_(ii.es., .
and substances of the universe about us really exist inde-
pendently of the mind, and with equaireahty, whether they
be perceived or not. Our senses make us aware not merely'
of our sensations, but also, and more directly, of the real,
independent existence of such bodies, and acquaint us with
their objective qualities. Our sensations themselves, though,
of course, only subjective, yet serve to make known to us
the truth about objective existences — 'things. in themselves,'
Our perception of objects does not in any way essentially
, alter them. External material objects exist independently
1 of us, and are unlike the sensations they excite in u.s, while
such sensations none the less produce in us perceptions
1 which are like the objective properties of such material,
I external objects. Reason assures us that, in our pursuit of
truth, we may repose securely on that spontaneous trust in
the truthfulness of our natural faculties (when matured and
employed with due care and attention) which is natural
to us. We may also be absolutely certain that an external
world really exists independently of us, and that its various
parts really possess these very powers and properties which
our senses and our reason combine to assure us such
objects do, in fact, possess." This system is now commonly
spoken of as " reajiaoaj.'. *

Such are the two systems, standing in direct opposition Methodof
to each other, the truth of which we have now to examine, "^'^^"'^ "^''

* The word " realism" had originally, and still often has, a very different
signification, as will be pointed out in the section on Science. See below.
Sect, v., chap. xxv.

78 ON TRUTH.

and, if possible, arrive at a certain conclusion about. In
considering this great problem, we shall first examine the
relation it bears to physical science — which has made
such wonderful progress since the time when idealism was
propounded by Berkeley. The result of that examination
will, we believe, be to show that idealism cannot be held
by followers of physical science, except at the cost of their
mental consistency. Those physicists who believe they see
truth in idealism must, in fact, hold two sets of truths —
one set having to do with that system, and the other set
having to do with physical science. They must thus, if we
are right, maintain the truth of propositions which contra-
dict each other, and this without being able in any way to
reconcile them or remove the contradiction.

We shall next endeavour to show that all which ideal-
ists positively affirm is true, but that they fail to perceive
another complementary truth, the neglect of which vitiates
their system, and causes it not only to conflict with physical
science, but with common sense also. In this contention
we shall have to deal with what we believe to be the funda-
mental error of idealism and the fundamental truth of
realism. All that will afterwards remain for us to do will
be to consider, with as much care and thoroughness as
possible, the various objections which have been brought
against the validity of our natural and spontaneous per-
suasion that the external world has a real, independent
existence. While passing these various objections in re-
view, we shall find occasion to illustrate idealism more fully
than we have been able to do in the brief statement given
in this chapter, and, finally, we shall do our best to point
out some of the special faults and inconsistencies of those
modifications of idealism which have of late obtained a
greater or less degree of popularity amongst us. This will
conclude the second section of our book. Succeeding
sections will be devoted to a consideration of the leading
features of that world, the real and independent existence
of which we are now endeavouring to make evident.

{ 79 )

A^

CHAPTER VIII.

IDEALISM AND SCIENCE.

A belief in idealism conflicts with the physical sciences in so far as I i 4
they are concerned with the causes of phenomena. ' I i

Idealism consistent ivith many simple perceptions — Physical science
concerns the causes of otir perceptions — Examples of scientific pre-
diction — Astronomy — Biology — Evolutioft — Common sense and
" idealism.''''

Strange as it may at first sight appear to be, it is none ideaihm
the less true that very many of our ordinary, everyday uHthi^Ly
perceptions and experiences fully admit of being expressed percej>twns.
in idealist phraseology, according to the explanations given
of it * by its supposed advocate in the foregoing chapter.
I Stranger still, the idealist representation of these simple
I experiences of ours is not only easily expressed, but the
i actual truths of that representation cannot be successfully
; contested if our perceptions really are, what idealists say
i they are, perceptions of our own ideas and sensations only.
Advocates of idealism mostly confine themselves, as did
Bishop Berkeley, to combating objections drawn from a
consideration of our ordinary simple perceptions. They
speak of perceptions such as our perceptions of an orange
with its various sensible properties, or they discuss our
imagination of such things as " a park with trees," or
" a library with books," and so on.f This mode of pro-
cedure was natural, because those who endeavoured to
refute idealism made use of objections drawn from a con-
sideration of such simple matters. If physical science was
* See above, p. 73. f See above, p. 75.

8o ON TRUTH.

merely made up of catalogues of phenomena, simultaneous
and successive, of different kinds, the m.ere number and
complexity of those phenomena, however prodigious, would
not suffice to make idealist phraseology inapplicable to
such science. If an orange may be but a bundle of feel-
ings of different kinds, then the whole contents of a museum,
of a geographical region, or of the whole solar system, may]
Physical also bc of similar nature and composition. Pi^isical,^i.ence^
cents the howcvcr, is Something very different from a collection of

causes of our r i t • .... 1

perceptions, catalogucs of phenomena. It is a systematic investigation

as to what are the causes of different phenomena, and it is

also its task to try and explain how such causes act. Lt

appeals, in justification of its declarations about causes,

^o iFr'own^.successful predictions, and it is accepted just

Because its various predictions have again and again been\
' justified by the event. Physical science, therefore, not only
has to do with our perceptions, but with the causes of our
perceptions. It says not only that we shall have expe-
riences which we call "perceiving new bodies," or "new
conditions of bodies," but how and why we shall come to
have them.
Examples I A prediction like the famed one of Leverrier, affords
^/5'Sv>« .- ! a striking example of scientific foresight, based on a belief
astro7ioiny. .^^ material bodies acting as causes and acting in a certain
manner. Leverrier, by his observations of the planet
Uranus — then thought to be the planet most distant from
■ the centre of the solar system — felt sure that its movements
• must be influenced by the presence of another considerable,
but yet unobserved, planet, still more distant from the sun.
He also predicted, from a study of those movements, that
this as yet unseen planet would be found in a particular
place in the heavens at a particular time ; and upon the
telescope being made use of accordingly, that predicted
body was actually for the first time seen, which is now
known as the planet Neptune.

Astronomical science in this instance declared not only
that we should perceive, under certain conditions, a new
body, or, in idealist phraseology, " a new group of feelings,"
but also how and why we should perceive it. Evidently it
really asserted what were the antecedent causes and the

IDEALISM AND SCIENCE. 8 1

actions of such causes, independently altogether of their
being perceived or not perceived. Leverrier's anticipation
about Neptune reposed on a conviction of the existence
of really existing, independent, extended, material bodies
with certain powers, including a really existing force of
gravity exerted between Neptune and Uranus, modifying
their motions. Let us try to express this in idealist phrase-
ology : The presence of a certain group of feelings I call
" Uranus " is accompanied by certain other feelings I call
" its movements," and these are succeeded in me by a set
of faint feelings I name " an idea of the influence of an
external unknown body," together with " a feeling of
anticipation " and ideas I call " a particular direction," and
" at a particular time." These are again succeeded by
other groups of feelings which I call " looking through
a telescope at the time and in the direction thought of,"
after which occurs a final group of feelings which I describe
as " seeing the new and predicted planet Neptune."

Over and above the grotesqueness of such modes of
expression, which no man of science will feel really and
truly portrays his own past mental experience, it is to be
1 remarked that they do not at all represent the facts of the
I case. The idealist phraseology puts before us only groups
■ of feelings which co-exist or succeed arbitrarily and without
any rational order or any evident reason why they should
so co-exist or succeed. The idealist cannot say why the
group of feelings he calls " the movements of Uranus "
should be related to another set of feelings, distinguished
as " the influence of an external body," or why the feelings
known as " looking through the telescope " should be suc-
ceeded by those called " seeing the planet Neptune." If
nothing exists but feelings, and some unperceived first
cause or agent — whether God or some other existence —
which alone produces them, then everything must depend
on the action of that agent, and all secondary causes and
interactions, such as those by which one body is supposed
to act on another, can be nothing but deceitful, illusory
appearances. But since physical science largely consists '
in a search after secondary causes and the laws of the inter-
action of bodies one on the other, a system which can take

G

t

"^-

82 ON TRUTH.

no account of either, must be simply fatal to physical ;
science. It would seem, then, that though men of science |
may be idealists, they cannot be so as_ men of science. |
While advocating idealism, they must for a time ignore
their science ; and while pursuing physical science, they
must temporarily disregard their idealism, and make use of
the hypothesis of the real independent existence of bodies
which alone harmonizes with the teaching of astronomy as
exemplified by Leverrier's prediction about the planet
Neptune.
Biology. \ The study of living creatures also affords various instruc-
tive instances of scientific prediction. A memorable in-
stance of the kind occurred in the career of the great
French naturalist, George Cuvier. Amongst the many
fossil remains found by him in the vicinity of Paris, was
the fossil skeleton of a small beast, embedded for the most
part m rock, but with a certain portion of the lower jaw
(termed the " angle ") exposed. This was bent inwards in
a way common to almost all opossums * — animals which
also possess two bones imbedded in the flesh of the belly and
known to anatomists as " marsupial bones." From his know-
ledge that these two cRaractefs~"geiierally went together,
Cuvier predicted that a pair of marsupial bones would be
found, when that part of the stone which then enclosed the
abdominal region of the beast so found by him, should be
chiselled away. He invited some friends to be present at
the operation, and succeeded in laying bare before them the
two bones, the discovery of which he had predicted. But no
cause for this co-existence of parts could then or can even
now be assigned. A subsequent discovery, therefore, is ropre
germane to the present question. In former times some
beasts of vast bulk lived in South America (the megathe-
rium and the mylodon), which more resemble in structure
those small existing animals known as " sloths " than they
resemble any others. Now, sloths pass their lives hang-
ing, back downwards, from the branches of trees (to which
they cling by their four hook-like paws), and the leaves of
which they feed on. But the huge extinct animals allied to
sloths were evidently too bulky to hang from trees, yet their

* See below, chap. xxi.

\

IDEALISM AND SCIENCE.

V//

teeth showed they also fed upon leaves. How did they
obtain them ? Sir Richard Owen most sagaciously solved
this problem. Having duly regarded the rugged outline of
the bones of the hind limbs and tail, which indicated the
vast masses of muscle which once clothed them, he sug-
gested that these animals had been in the habit of rearing
themselves on their hind limbs and tail as on a tripod, and
then pulling trees down to feed on their leaves. It was
objected to this theory that with such habits these animals
would be very apt to get their heads broken by falling
trees. Sir Richard thereupon re-examined the head of the
mylodon which had been the subject of his investigations
and conjectures, and he found that its head had been
broken. He also found that the skull of the animal was
so constructed as to enable it to endure such fractures with
very little inconvenience. Is it possible to relate this cir-
cumstance in terms of idealism, without so transforming
its significance as to make it mean something altogether
different from what was meant by Sir Richard Owen when
expounding his views, and what was understood by his
hearers when listening to his exposition .-* Evidently the^
" falling tree " referred to hypothetically may be thought
of as a " plexus of faint feelings," and the fractured skull
actually seen may be considered a "plexus of vivid feel-
ings ; " but in this way we lose the entire idea of the
causation of the fracture by the fall, and the whole point
and meaning of Sir Richard's sagacious inference would
be thereby missed.

Moreover, according to that inference, the actions of the
extinct mylodon and the risks it ran from falling trees, were
supposed to be quite independent of any mind perceiving
such actions, even if they did not exist at a period anterior ^.
to any possible human observation of them whatever. Ph};^ jf n^
sical science declares to us not only what we shall perceive

under certain conditions, but also, as was just, now -..s.aid,.^ ^^^

how it comes about that we shall perceive it, and what are

Tlie antecedent causes and their actions, independently -

JaTtogether of anybody ^r^ceivhlg liieia. It tells us, indeed. Evolution.

Tdiat"TTiere was a time when there were no minds to per-
ceive, and that, nevertheless, the interaction of physical

84 ON TRUTH.

causes went on till, after an unimaginable series of ages,
the world became fit for animal life, and, ultimately, for
mind to find a place on its surface. According to that
view of nature which has now met with such general
acceptance, and which is known as " the theory of evolu-
tii>»r' this world was at first, for a prodigious period of
time, the theatre of physical forces only ; subsequently life
began to appear where before no life was, and as ages have
succeeded to ages, higher forms of life, both vegetable and
animal, came into being. After the land and waters had
teemed with life for a vast period of time, an age of reptiles,
it is declared, preceded the age of beasts. Then huge
marineL.j:eptilian forms occupied the place afterwards
filled by whales and porpoises ; the air vibrated with the
rapid strokes of the wings of flying reptiles, while others
TrroTE huge than the rhinoceroses of to-day, browsed on the
foliage of its trees or hunted down and slew the less agile
vegetable feeders. All this at last came to an end with the
deposition of what are now our familiar ch,^k downs, and
since that time a great variety of beasts have come into
being and perished without leaving a trace behind, although
a fraction of those which have become extinct are now known
to us as fossil forms. Genus succeeded to genus and
species to_ species ; the gigantic long-armed ape wandered
over the s o u t h "oTPr a n c e , and many kinds of monkey chat-
tered in the woods of what we now know as Greece. At
last the human form made its appearance on the scene, and
then came races destined to dwell for centuries in caves,
rudely chipping flints for weapons, but by degrees exhibit-
ing signs of an innate love for art. They had with diffi-
culty to hold their own against the cave bear, tiger, hyaena,
and other such formidable foes before they were succeeded
by other races, and these by others, till the dawn of history
appeared for us, the remote successors of those more primi-
tive races of mankind. Such is the teaching of evolution
and of science. How is it possible to state all these rela-
fV tions and conditions in the language of idealism ?" If
^K^idealism were true, evolution would indeed be a mere
Common -^drcam, and the whole of physical science also.'
7delus",. But is the boast of idealism, that it in no way conflicts

IDEALISM AND SCIENCE. 85

with "common sense," justifiable? Is it true that it only
deprives the ordinary man of what he will never miss, or
does the matter in dispute concern such ordinary man
more nearly than idealists would have us believe ? Would
the world, as understood by common people, be revolu-
tionized, if not destroyed altogether, should idealists be
right ? It is true that we can express simple perceptions,
whether simultaneous or successive, in idealistic phrase ;
' but ordinary men, in the exercise of their "common sense,"
have to do with something more than such simple percep-
tions. There is, in fact, no real_distinctio_n of kind between
i scientific knowledge and ordinary knowledge. The pursuit
I of science is but a pursuit of knowledge conducted with
especial care, and according to rules dictated by reason
and experience. In ordinary life, just as in science, we
seek to know causes and to understand as best we may
the ways in which they act. Conceptions of the causal
action of one thing on another, and of different modes of
such action, abound in ordinary speech and the mental
habits of everyday life. Every artisan or sportsman who
discusses the utility of tools or weapons or methods of
procedure, gives evidence of this fact.
/A / ^^ have drawn out at some length Uie inconsistenc^of
'H:\ ( idealism with physical science in order to show more plainly
I its inconsistency wirii"tTie"dictates also of common sense,
I which are nothing essentially different from the dictates of
\ science. Let the reader judge for himself whether or not
idealism would or would not deprive him of an essential
element of his daily life, if it could deprive him of his per-
ceptions of the causal relations of bodies. Let him consider
whether a world, deprived of such relations, would not be
for him a world revolutionized, or rather, whether the world,
as he knows it^wouTcT^n'ot be thereby entirely destroyed.
Some persons may reply that v/e ought to be grateful to
idealism for doing away with this notion of the action of
causes, seeing that it is a mere delusion, since all we can see
is that one thing follows another, and not that it exercises
any real influence over it. This reply we have already
discussed,* and shall refer to again,! but a short answer

* See above, pp. 48-51. t See below, chap, xviii.

86 ON TRUTH.

may here suffice. Our present object is not to justify the
conceptions either of common sense or of physical science,
but to see whether or not idealism accords with them.
Now, such a reply as that we are considering, would at
once annihilate the pretension of idealists that their
system does not conflict with common sense, and would
show idealism to be a system incapable of admitting an
idea of daily use amongst mankind, which is bound up
with our conception of the world, and is essential to
the progress of physical science. The beliefs of ordinary
men and the conceptions made use of by physical science
are thus bound up together, and "realism" justifies both
alike. But to justify the conceptions of science will not,
of course, help us to understand the conceptions of those
men of science who profess idealism. To try and explain
the contradiction which exists between their idealism and
their science is the task to which we have next to apply
ourselves. In the following chapter we shall endeavour to
reconcile the seemingly inconsistent truths thus simulta-
neously held, by the aid of what we believe to be a com-
plementary truth which has been too generally neglected.

( 87 )

CHAPTER IX.

THE KEY OF THE POSITION.

We have a direct and immediate knowledge of objects which are
made present to the intellect by the action of the senses, and we
can obtain a certain knowledge of matters of which the senses
can take no cognizance.

4

The truth in idealism — Complementary truth — Sensations the means,
not the object, of perception^Two elements in perception — True
ineaning of " represeftf^ — Perception 7iot i7tfere7ice — • What so-called
" uticonscious ittference " is — Perception certified by attention.

Idealists are perfectly right in saying that we can know The trtdh
nothing except through our sensations, and that a plexus"" '^'^""'•.
of our own feelings forms for us every external object
which we think we perceive or know. Moreover, not only
is it true that our knowledge of everything we perceive is
thus constituted, but it is also true that we can neither
imagine nor conceive of anything, however abstract or
elevated the object imagined or conceived of may seem to
us to be, except by the help of sensations, or of feelings
and imaginations which are the result of antecedently felt
sensations.* The truth of the first assertion is unquestion-
able ; for it is obvious that we can perceive no object
except by our means of perception ; that we have no means
of perception apart from our sense organs ; and that these
can act for us in no other way than by affording us sensa-
tions, either vivid or faint. The truth of the second asser-'
tion the reader should test for himself Let him examine
again and again the most refined or abstract idea he can
think of, and let him see whether he has not in his mind,

* See also below, chap. xv.

Comple-
mentary
truth..

^^ ON TRUTH.

while thinking of it, the imagination of some object which I
has before been present to his senses — some feeling, or t
some group of feelings. If he tries to think of "heat," or!
" light," he will find that there arises in his imagination
more or less vague and transient remimscences of impres-
sions he has received from warm or lummous bodies. If
he tries to fix his mind on the conception, '' God," he will
see that some mental image accompanies the presence of
that idea ; it may be that of a venerable human figure, or
of light issuing from a cloud, or of a luminous triangle, or
of the letters G O D, or of the sound of the spoken word —
according as images of one or other kind may have become
associated in his past experience. If he dwells on such
abstract ideas as "being," or "contradiction," or even tries
to think of " nonentity," he will perceive, if he looks closely
into his own mind, that the presence of those ideas is
accompanied in the first case by transient images of bodies
he has perceived, in the second case by images of bodies
placed opposite each other, or in some way in conflict,
and in the third case by a shorter or longer series of things
thought of as existing, and then successively, as it were,
ejected from thought ; for to think, and yet think of
nothing, is an impossibility,.--

Idealists are also right in saying that if we analyze our \
perception, or idea, of any object, whatever it may be, we | 4^^
shall find that we cannot imagine its constituent elements {
in any other terms than those of our own sensations, and - -^
they are also right in affirming that it is no less impossible r ■'"
to imagine anything existing unperceived. Besides all this, i
their reasoning against even the possibility of anything
existing unperceived is perfectly logical and valid. For
things which are exclusively made up of " feelings " — as
they affirm all objects perceived by us to be — can have
no existence except as felt. Obviously "feelings" could
have no place in a universe which was entirely devoid of
feeling. In maintaining the truth of the foregoing proposi-
tions, idealists, then, have reason on their side. There is,
however, another most important fact of which they fail
altogether to take note, namely, that over and above acts
ofsensatii2iL.a4id.imaginatiDjni» the action of the intellect has

THE KEY OF THE POSITION. 89

to be taken into account. It is quite true that we can If
neitnerreCT^^^^Rnagme 'anything except in terms of"
sensation, and that we can neither perceive nor think of
anything save through the aid of our feelings ; but it is
no less true that we can, with their help, both perceive and
conceive of things that never were and never can be either
felt or imagined. It is true that everything we perceive is
constituted by groups of our feelings, vivid and faint, but
it is no less true that what we perceive in perceiving any-
thing, is not merely a group of feelings vivid and faint, but
something altogether beyond feeling. In this respect our
perception of bodies around us is quite like, and runs
parallel to, our perception of our own being.

In the second chapter it was pointed out that what
we immediately and directly perceive,* with respect to
our own being, is our concrete activity — ourselves acting
or enduring — and not either our states of consciousness or
the continuous existence of the self which has those states.
Nevertheless we recognized the obvious fact that we can
at will turn back our minds and advert either to the
existence of "our states of consciousness," or to that of
"our self," as a persisting objective being. We also found f
that it was the unnoticed presence of those " states of
consciousness " which brought about our direct perception
of our own concrete activity, and were the necessary con-
ditions for the very existence in us of that perception.
Just in the same way our perception of any object — say
a tree — is an immediate and direct perception of the
concrete tree itself, and not of the sensations which it
occasions in us or of the persistent existence of the tree
which gives rise to the sensations. Just in the same way,
again, we can, if we please, turn back our minds and
advert either to the existence of the sensations we have
feTt~in perceiving the tree, or to that of the tree itself as
a persisting objective thing. Similarly it is the unnoticed
presence of " our sensations " which has brought about our
direct perception of the tree, and such "sensations" are the^
necessary conditions for the existence in us of that percep-
tion. If the reader will consider for himself the action of hisl

* See above, p. 20. t See above, pp. 21, 22.

90>^ ON TRUTH.

own mind, lie will, we are persuaded, see the truth of what
we now urge. Should he, for example, when reading this,
have lately met a carriage with some friends of his in it, let
him ask himself what was present to his mind at the time ?
We are sure he will say it was the presence of the carriage
and his friends which he directly perceived. No doubt,
in order to perceive them, he must have experienced certain
sensations, and no doubt his eyes saw various patches of
different colours, different in size and shape, and his ears
heard sounds produced by wheels and horses' hoofs and
by the vocal organs of his friends. But he never adverted
to these sensations at the time he felt them, though he can
turn his mind back and recognize that they were then
present to his sensitive faculty as they now may be to his
imagination. His intellect was not occupied about his
1 sensations when he perceived his friends, so that his sensa-
tions, though affecting his sensitive faculty, were not them-
s^iuatiojis I selves perceived. Such sensations, or subjective signs,

the iiuans, • ^ . •' O '

' /:.■ make bodies known to us without being directly known
/cfvc/'i/o/i. to US themselves. They are the means which enable us
1 |_to^_perceive objects, but they^are jnot themselves the object

jfof perception. They hide themselves from our notice in
giving rise to the perception they elicit, and can only be
detected by an express turning of the intellect upon them.
With practice and attention we can turn back the mind and
observe these subjective signs ; but ordinarily, though felt,
they remain unnoticed, and we only perceive the thing they
reveal. The subjective signs are only to be apprehended with
more or less labour and trouble, and never spontaneously
or naturally occupy our attention. It is the thing they
signify which is naturally, easily, and clearly appi'ehended
by all men. In seeing and touching things which we come
to know through seeing and touching, we have of course
such " subjective signs " — visual and tactual feelings, vivid
and faint — but these latter remain in themselves unnoticed
by the mind which is occupied in perceiving the objects
so signified and made known. We can with practice draw
out the perspective lines of a building we look at, but in
looking at it we do not naturally perceive them, but it.
When a solid cube is placed before us, we perceive that the

THE KEY OF THE POSITION. 9 I

cube has square faces, although, from its position, the
surfaces it presents to our eyes may not appear to be squares
but lozenges. Our perception of an object remains quite
unchanged, for all that the subjective signs it occasions
may undergo a number of changes through its movements
or through our change of position.

If we walk through a colonnade, the aspects of its

\ columns continually change in our sight, but the colonnade
remains one unchanging reality to our apprehension. Thus

■in every perception we have two elements : (1) a subjective ^^"^ , .

, j y X i ^ ^ ^j^ J elejitents in

;V.' (element made up of the various signs it gives rise to in our A"'w/''<'«'
^/^. I sensitive faculty, and (2) an objective element which is the
I object itself made known to the intellect by those signs.
■ It is the second or objective element which is directly, natu-
rally, and clearly apprehended, and it is the former which
, is to be distinctly detected only by an effort of reflex mental
activity. Idealists, indeed, tell us that " all we can receive
through the presence of external objects must consist of
impressions, images, or representations of such objects,
which can be no more like the objects themselves than
a picture is like the thing it represents." Ordinary men,
however, think that what they perceive about them is not
a collection of "impressions," "images," or "representa-
tions " of different bodies, but the very bodies themselves.
e are convinced that in so thinking ordinary men are
ight, and that the contrary belief constitutes the funda-
mental error of idealists of all schools. This fundamental
error we believe results partly from the ambiguity of_the
Jixepresentation," partly from our knowing that an
/Image of our external surroundings is formed within our
A eyes. But an examination of our own mind shows us that True
i our faculties not only furnish us with images or impressions "represent."
I of things, but by means of those images and impressions
j they repx£&&iit a thing — that is, they make the thing present
^ to the intellect. If we enter a library, we do not then see
Umages of books in rows — we see the very books themselves.
jThey are things made directly present to our mind by
fits faculties. We do not perceive any image or impres-
sion of them, though a variety of agents may concur in
eliciting our perception, and the number of these agents

«

92 ON TRUTH.

differs in different perceptions. Thus in listening to the
stroke of a bell we may distinguish no less than seven
objects, powers, and actions: There is (i) the person who
perceives the bell's stroke ; (2) his sensitive power or
faculty as active, or actually hearing ; (3) his sensitive
power or faculty as passive, or as about to be affected by
the action of the bell ; (4) his organ of hearing, by means
of which his sensitive faculty is affected ; (5) the medium
by which the influence of the bell is transmitted to his
organ of hearing ; (6) the bell itself which sounds ; and
(7) the power or quality of the bell which causes the trans-
mission of the influence. But of all this it is only the
striking bell which the intellect directly apprehends.

Men have ordinarily little knowledge of such complex
distinctions and diversities of objects and operations.
They perceive things without knowing how they perceive
them, as they make articulate sounds without knowing
how they move their tongues and lips in order to utter
them, and they may end their days in perfect ignorance
of such things without being any the less able either to
articulate or to perceive. That people see things them-
selves, and not " images " or " representations " of them, is
a conviction so universally entertained as to make idealists
affirm that men are in this respect universally mistaken
and think they really perceive what, in fact, they only
infer by an unconscious or forgotten process of infer-
ence. But the word " inference " means, as we have seen,*
the perception by our mind of the fact that one truth is
implicitly contained in other truths antecedently known.
An unconscious inference must, then, be a contradiction
in terms, for we cannot bring a latent or implicit truth
explicitly before the mind without having it present to the
mind, nor can we recognize that what is now explicitly
known to us was implied in what we knew before, without
being aware of what we are about — that is, without being
Perception conscious. Ah inference, however, which takes place
'inference, cousciously may excite very little attention in our mind ;
may be unnoticed, or at least rapidly forgotten. Can it,
then, be contended that our perceptions are due to such

* See above, pp. 55-57-

THE KEY OF THE POSITION. 93

hasty, little adverted to, unnoticed, and speedily forgotten
inferences ? Now, if inferences have been really drawn,
then, though they may have been unnoticed at the time
or forgotten, they can always be perceived or recalled
by reflection. Thus, if we have mistakenly thought we
saw a friend in the gloaming, in a place where, and at a
time when we knew it was likely we should see him, we
can easily recognize that our mistake was due to our
having concluded it was he on account of such probabilities,
of which we were thus aware. We can recognize that our
mind had been in that state of consciousness which is
expressed by " seeing a consequence " — seeing the force
of a "therefore" — when we reflect and examine what the
state of our mind was. The presence of a conscious infer-
ence, unnoticed at the time of its recurrence or rapidly
forgotten, can be thus recognized after the event. But it
is impossible to recognize the presence of any act of infer-
ence in our ordinary perceptions of objects about us.
When, for example, we have perceived an orange, and look
back and examine that perception, we do not find that we
have mentally said to ourselves, " I see a certain roundish
patch of orange colour ; I feel a certain shape, firmness,
and size, and I smell a certain smell ; therefore I perceive
. an orange." Just so is it with the immense majority of
j our perceptions. Why, then, should we deem these to be
■ " unconscious inferences " when our own minds declare
5/ tfiey are nothing of the kind .'* Can it be supposed to be
I more wonderful or mysterious that we should perceive
i " objects," than that we should perceive " inferences " ?
' An " inference " — a perception that one thing must be true
because its truth is implicitly contained in other truths —
is surely a much more complex and involved mental
: process than is the direct perception of an object. For
this reason, then, if even for no other, we should not con-
clude that we have made use of a process of " inference "
when nothing in our own minds tells us that we have
really done so^

To explain this matter it will be necessary for us to
here introduce some statements about our faculties which
will be dwelt upon and justified in the next section of this

'4/^

ON TRUTH.

What
so-called
" uncon-
scious in-
ference " is.

\

book. Thus we affirm that we have three orders * of '
faculties : one intellectual — by which we apprehend such ,
ideas as " goodness," " truth," etc. ; another sensuous — ,
by which we entertain feelings and associate them together |
in groups ; and, thirdly an unconscious vital power — by 1
which life is mainly sustained, and by which vital processes i
take place on the receipt of unfelt impressions, and may, ^
by their accumulation or prolongation, come to excite our
"feelings." Indeed, the area of our consciousness is a very
restricted area compared with the area of our organic
vitality,. by which expression we mean the total sum of
the unfelt active processes and powers of our living body.
Every conscious act in us is the result of a greater or
less number of such unconscious vital processes, and if
this is the case, then the act of perception must be the
result of a number of such unconscious processes. We
not only admit this, but we affirm it. But so to affirm is a
very different thing from saying that a perception is an
unconscious inference. That process in us which has been |
mistaken for " unconscious inference," in reality consists \ \
of such unconscious vital processes, together with then
association of images in the imagination. We may know?
this from the fact that a mere animal can so associate!
together the sight of changes of relative position between!
itself and another creature as practically to apprehend)
either that its prey is escaping or that an enemy is ap-1
proaching, as the case may be. Such merely sensuous'
associations of images exist in us as well as in the lower
animals, and underlie our intellectual perceptions and infer-
ences. Reflection enables us to apprehend these various,
at first unnoticed, mental elements, and thus to distinguish
between (i) an association of images, {2) a perception,
and (3) an inference. Thus signs of relative changes of
place impressed on our senses by objects, awaken in our
intellect the idea and perception of a moving body, though
they may not enable us to determine where the motion
is, without a further examination or even without a real
process of inference. We have a notable instance of the
employment of such a process, in the belief once enter-
* See below, chap. xiv.

THE KEY OF THE POSITION. 95

tained about the motion of the sun. That behef makes
us aware of a process of inference which was and is often
overlooked, but which can be clearly seen on reflection
to have been an inference, as it is not " motion," but
" change in relative position," which our senses can alone
perceive.*

But it is the less necessary to accept the contradictory^
notion that a "perception" is an "unconscious inference,",,
because' we rnay and we do obtain a reflective assurance of
the truth of our perceptions without employing inference.
No one can deny but that a distinction is to be drawn
between " attention " and " inference," and we may gain an
increased or absolute certainty for our perceptions by acts
of "attention," quite without the employment of" inference."
The reader will, we think, admit that he can perceive an
object — say a horse or a tree — consciously, but without any
particular attention, and that he is also capable of looking
at it attentively and making sure that it is a horse or
a tree, yet without using any process of inference. He can Perception

t 1 • 1 • • 1 • certified by

] thus " make sure by merely tightennig, as it were, his attention.
sensuous grasp of the object, and carefully focussing his

\ sense perceptions.

Let the reader here call to mind how he has some-
times, if not often, thus made sure of some object by look-
ing at it attentively in a sudden and spontaneous manner,
and quite without any deliberate attention — without saying
to himself mentally, " I will look carefully and make sure."
This action, so common amongst men, is also common
amongst animals, which can evidently so associate images
as to seem to us, at first sight, to draw inferences — though
all such actions on their part are explicable (as are many
of our own) by the mental association of habitual co-ex-
istences and sequences of sense impressions. They also
may perceive an object indistinctly and inattentively, or
they may tighten their sensuous grasp of it and watch it.
We likewise have such merely sensuous perceptions, and
such sensuous associations simulating inference. But over
and above these, we have intellectual perceptions and true
inferences. Our intellect, then, can, as before said, perceive '

* See below, chap. x.

96^ ON TRUTH.

objects either directly and inattentively, or directly and
attentively, and no doubt our attentive perception is aided
by sensuous association. But since we have consciousness
_la^Q by^it would be absurd to call any action inferential,
which is neither consciously perceived to be inferential
when performed, nor seen, on subsequent reflection, to
have really had that character. In perception, then, we
both can and do gain an immediate assurance, and also
{i.e. by attention) gain an augmented assurance, that the
truth of any given perception needs no further proof, but
is quite certain, and this without using any process of
inference. Thus perception is not a process of inference
from known signs to a before unknown notion of an object,
but is a spontaneous, unconscious interpretation of signs
(which themselves are not distinctly adverted to), by a
natural activity and power of the mind — a power the action
of which is rapidly perfected by exercise.

A recognition of the fact that we have a direct and
immediate knowledge of objects which are made present
to the mind through our sensations, constitutes the key of
the position of that realistic system of belief which is
common to all men except the minute minority of idealistic
philosophers. The assertions of realism are assertions both
made to us spontaneously by our own minds, and also re-
affirmed by our minds when we carefully reflect on the
subject. They are assertions which justify the natural
beliefs of ordinary men, and are the indispensable supports
of the assumptions upon which the whole fabric of physical
science reposes. For these reasons realism has a strong
claim on our acceptance, provided that the opposite system
cannot bring forward any unanswerable objections to it.

It remains, then, for us to consider one after another
in the next chapter, the objections which idealists have
brought forward against those natural convictions of man-
kind, the validity of which we confidently affirm.

( 97 )

^,

///

CHAPTER X.

OBJECTIONS.

An ajialysis of certain of our ideas refutes the fundamental idealist
objection. All the other objections of idealists are insufficient to
show that we cannot truly apprehend even the secondary quali-
ties of bodies, although how such knowledge, or how any know-
ledge is possible, is an inscrutable mystery.

T/ie fundamental objection — Primary and secondary qualities — The
common belief — Perceptions^ ideas, and sensations — The idea of
force — Simple attd compound feelings — Imagination and conception
— The intellect as a factor — Its declarations about qualities — Ob-
jections as to colours and sounds — Effects of bodily injuries on our
perceptions—So-called deceptions of the senses —Dreamitig and
waki/ig — The possible dcceitfulness of our faculties — Our percep-
tions even of secondary qualities cannot be proved mendacious —
The process of perceiving the unimaginable, inscrutable.

The objections brought by idealists against the common Yhe/unda-
belief in the existence of a world independently of the \bjcction.
mind, alWest on one fundamental assertion which may be
expressed as follows : " All knowledge consists of ' im-
pressions^ (or sensations) and ot taint reproductions of the
same, called ' ideas.' " Ideas are thus represented as being j
nothing but "faint revivals of sensations and of feelings of I
relation between sensations." Thus, do what we may, we '
can — according to idealists — arrive at nothing but our own
subjective affections, together with, at the most, the in-
ference that there exists some unknown external cause
which gives rise to our feelings and ideas.

Now, this fundamental assertion we have encountered
point blank in the preceding chapter. We have done our

u

ON TRUTH.

best to show that the things which men know directly and ,
immediately, are not so many " bundles of feelings," but ex-
ternal objects themselves, made directly present to the mind '
through the feelings they excite. If we have succeeded in
this endeavour, then, the one support upon which all the
objections raised by idealists rest having been shown to be
untenable, we might, perhaps, spare ourselves and our
readers any detailed consideration of the objections them-
selves. Nevertheless, we think it better to distinctly, if
briefly, review them, in order to remove, as completely as
we can, misunderstandings which might otherwise impede
us in our treatment of those questions concerning man and
the world he inhabits, which will occupy us in succeeding
sections of this book.

Now, idealists, in support of their fundamental asser-
tions, appeal to what they deem the evident impossibility
of our having any real knowledge of what are called the
"^Z "secondary qualities "^""of bodies — ^^that is, their colours,
sounds, odours, and tastes — other than our own feelings
Primary . VQS^^cA^^JjLx&sci.- ■ lu SO far as people think otherwise, they
"secondary jarc dcclarcd to be demonstrably in error. But if they
qualities. 'j;j^anifestly err in this matter, and if secondary qualities
have no existence except in the feelings of those who feel
them, then, say they, we need not be surprised if the
"primary qualities" of bodies — that is, their extension,
solidity, shape, number, motion, force, etc. — turn out to be
in the same case, and are (as they say they are) also
reducible to groups of feelings variously combined. And
idealists are right in this, for if we could not directly know
things themselves, but only the impressions made upon us
by them, then it would also be true that what we call
" primary qualities " might be reduced to groups of feelings,
and that our ideas of extension, solidity, motion, etc., might
really be nothing more than ceisfeain groups of those
muscular feelings and feelings of effort and resistance,
which have been made use of by us in acquiring such ideas.
In spite, however, of this likeness between these two sets
of qualities as regards the validity of our beliefs concern-
ing them, men feel very differently in their regard. In the
first place, the colours which objects exhibit can only be

OBJECTIONS. 99

appreciated by the eye, and the sounds they give rise to
can only be known through our sense of hearing. But in
examining the solidity, extension, figure, number, and
motion of the objects we perceive, we can bring more than
one sense into play, and we can test by our hands the
correctness of what we think the eye indicates, and confirm
the evidence of touch by vision. We have, therefore, a
naturally stronger persuasion of the objective reality of
the primary qualities of bodies than we have of the
accuracy of our knowledge with respect to their secondary
qualities. We can also much better dispense with our
belief in the reality of the latter than of the former. If
we were obliged to consider that the colours, sounds,
odours, and tastes of the objects around us were merely
subjective feelings, and that nothing in the remotest degree
like them existed in the objects themselves, the world would
indeed seem to be desppiled of very much of its charm, but
would nevertheless still remain for us substantially what
we before deemed it to be. Flowers would have lost their /
tints as well as their fragrance, and the melody of birds,
no less than brilliance of plumage, would have disap-
peared. But such a transformation would be trifling indeed =
compared with the effects which would follow from the _ ^j
disappearance of the primary qualities. With their .dis- /l'^'^
appearance the solid earth... would vanish from beneath ^
our_i&et, the heavens from above us, and we should even ^
lose the apparent fellowship of that most constant of all !
our companions — our own body. It is not wonderful, then, \
that men cling tenaciously to their belief in the reality of
primary qualities. And yet if our senses of sight, feeling,
hearing, smell, and taste may each and all severally
deceive us, it is difficult to see on what grounds we are to
repose confidence in the seeming declarations of any two
of them ! Yet we are told that if we think our perceptions
as to the colours, sounds, odours, and tastes of bodies, are
really like anything in them apart from our feelings, then
we are and must be grossly in error. The colour of any
object, it is said, is nothing but the result of the undulation
of certain waves of light reflected from its surface on our
eyes — waves of different lengths occasioning different im-

belief.

lOO ON TRUTH.

pressions of colour — and we are asked how there can
possibly be any real resemblance between that condition
of a body which causes it to reflect these waves, and the
sensations of light and colour which we feel ? Again, they
say, sounds emitted by any object are merely the effects
"oTcertain minute vibrations of its substance ; how then can
there be any possible resemblance between such minute
oscillations of matter and a feeling of sound ? As well
might we consider a wound, or the pain of it, to be like
the knife which caused both !
\ Now, it is most true that a feeling in us cannot, in itself,
j be like a quality of an external body. The sensation
"orange colour" cannot, of course, be in a real orange, nor
can that " ringing sound " which we experience when a bell
Thecommo, IS struck be really in the bell ; but the^plain m^l,DX-the
rustic is not so absurd as to suppose the contrary. He
' knows well enough that his sensations of taste, sound, and
colour, are feelings which he has, and that those feelings
,A: exist in himself, and not in external things. But he al^
j\y/ kiiou:s-that Jjiere-Js- in. these external things somctliing
/ which corresponds wkh his feelings and gives rise to them.
If we question him intelligently, we shall find that he con-
siders he does get some sort of knowledge of the real quali-
ties of external things by the use of his senses, and that he
is indisposed to believe he could get a better knowledge of
those qualities in any other way. His feelings, he is sure,
are his own exclusively ; but he thinks, nevertheless, that !
he does know, by means of his feelings, something of the \
objective qualities of things as they really exist in them- '
selves, independently of his perception of them. And herein
the " plain man " is right. His belief is the spontaneous and j
universal belief of mankind, apart from idealist philosophers, ■
and a spontaneous and almost universal belief of mankind
should be accepted and acquiesced in, unless there are good
reasons against so doing. That such " good reasons " do
not exist it is the object of this section to show. Neverthe-
less, we would not be understood to maintain that either
rustics or philosophers are furnished with the means of
knowing exJiansiivel^ either all the qualities of objects, or
what those objects and qualities are in themselves. It may

OBJECTIONS. lOI

well be that, had we other senses or differently formed
organs of sense, we might be able to apprehend qualities
which we now cannot even imagine, or have a far more
complete knowledge of some of those we know already.
Our knowledge of the objects around us may be very im-
perfect compared with the knowledge of them which more
exalted intelligences might be able to attain to, and there
may be many objects in existence which we have no
means of perceiving. For all that, it is quite possible
that our knowledge of secondary qualities may at least be
true to such an extent, that the man who affirms these
qualities to exist objectively, as we apprehend them, is
indefinitely nearer the truth than he who simply denies
their objective existencey^

But here we must direct the reader's attention to a very
important distinction. We have seen * that in our percep-
tion of any object, that object is made present to the mind by
sensations which are hardly, or not at all, adverted to by us.
The presence of the object in the mind is a presence in the
mind's perception, not in its sensations. When men affirm
that secondary qualities, as we know them, cannot possibly
exist objectively, what they really mean is the truth that " a
feeling " cannot exist except as felt — and this, of course, is
true. When they further say that a " secondary quality, as
we know it, cannot be like an objective quality of an ex-
ternal independent body," they mean "a feeling cannot be
like an objective quality " — and this, of course, is also true.
They forget, however, that there may be a correspondence
between our " perception " of an object and that object. Perceptions
although there can be no such correspondence between that 'feusations.
object and the " sensations " which give rise to our percep-
tion of it. For, as before said,t we have a power both of
\ perceiving and conceiving things which " never were and
never can be either felt or imagined," and we saw almost
at the outset of our inquiry % that a recognition of the trust-
worthiness of memory is enough to show us that our intel-
lect can know objective existences which are absolutely
imperceptible to the senses. We will do our best to

* See above, p. 91.
t See above, p. 89. % See above, p. 36.

I02 ON TRUTH.

enable the reader to further test for himself the truth of
these assertions ; and if he should decide that there is in-
deed the great distinction between " feelings " and " ideas "
which we say there is, and if he should also be convinced
that he can truly perceive some of the objective qualities of
bodies, then he will no longer find it so strange that his
power of perception should enable him to apprehend the
secondary qualities of bodies also.

Before entering on this question, however, it may be
well to advert to the distinction drawn by idealists be-
tween : (i) sensations and perceptions, as being vivid
feelings, and (2) ideas, as being faint revivals of vivid
feelings formerly experienced. There is plainlya^^^reat i

_distinctipii. hetvveen perceptions "and ideas, but it by no {
means consists in the greater vividness of the former, but
in their permanence and their independence of the will
of him wlici^^.jDerceives. As to mere vividness, ideas and

^emotions may be more vivid than many sensations. Ideas
will sometimes return again and again with a keenness
only too well known to those who have experienced mis-
fortune, and pleasurable ideas and anticipations will occa-
sionally produce an excitement almost beyond control.
But, apart from such extreme affections, how many of us
when listening to some melody familiar in early days, or
when seeing again, after a lapse of years, some spot dear
to memory, have not felt the force of ideas thereby recalled
far more vividly than the actual sensations of ear or eye
which have served to recall them !

On the other hand, perceptions and ideas can be well
distinguished, by the relations they respectively bear to our
volition. Every one knows that he has no power to change
his perceptions of objects, though his ideas of objects can
be influenced by his will. While gazing at the National
Gallery, we cannot, try as we may, change our perception
of that building into a perception of the sea at Brighton,
or of the Jungfrau viewed from Interlaken. We cannot by
any merely mental effort banish either the objects visible
to our eyes, or the hum and rattle of the busy streets. But
if we are o\\\y thinking of the National Gallery, then we
can, at pleasure, divert our imagination from that vision,

OBJ EC no xs.

lO

and call up a mental image of the sea at Brighton, or
of the Jungfrau bathed in sunshine. Wc can, therefore, j 3
clearly distinguish, quite apart from their greater or less ' -^
vividness, two very different sets of mental phenomena. - — "
In the one set there is great facility of change, in the other —
there is permanence. In imagination our will has great
power, while in perception it is impotent.

But to return to the question whether any of our ideas
contain what was never felt, and are therefore more than
mere collections of faint, agglutinated, and modified sensa-
tions : It is sometimes represented that our ideas may be
analogous to those photographic portraits in which the
superposition of various different images results in the
formation of a generalized picture, somewhat like eachi
image, but absolutely like no one of them. Thus, it is/
said, our idea of a horse is a similar spurious unity — a sortf
of amalgam of the images of all the liorses we have evef
seen. But if the reader will think what he really mean^
when he says, " That is a horse," or " a pair of horses," he
will see that there is far more in his " perception " than was
ever contained in the sensations which gave rise to it.
The sensations most probably do unite to form a generalized
mental image, but not " an idea," which is something very
different, as will shortly more plainly appear.* When we /\}
say, "Those are two horses," our full meaning is, "those ^—
two objects which really exist independently of our per- -"^
ceiving them, are two solid, material, living creatures of an
animal nature, belonging to that group of beings which we
distinguish from other animals by the name 'horse.'"
Even then, in so simple a perception as that here selected
as an example, the mind has within it a number of latent
conceptions such as those just drawn out, and besides these
it has a number of other yet more abstract ideas. For in
every such perception there are, and must be, latent the
ideas t of "existence," "distinction," "similarity," "unity,"
and "truth." But the reader must not be surprised if he
I does not immediately recognize the presence of these ideas.
'Their presence is not explicitly recognized with ease,

* See below, chap. xiv. , " Sensuous Generalized Cognitions."
t See further chap, xvii., " Ideas of Existence, Essence," etc.

^

1 04, ON TRUTH.

except by the aid of reflection. Nevertheless, he will be able ^
to detect their latent presence, by considering the results |
which follow from the denial of any one of them. Thus, /
if some one were to say, " What you call horses, only exist (
in your imagination," our assertion, " I see two horses," '
would be contradicted by the denial of the real existence ,
of the animals, and thus we see th-e idea of their real exist-;
ence was implicitly contained in our assertion. If another'/
person were to say, " You see double ; there is really only
one horse," our assertion would be then equally contradicted <
by this denial of that " distinction " between the two objects
which we thus find was implicitly present in it. If yet
another person remarked, " They are not two horses, for one
is a mule," such a remark would contradict our assertion ,
by denying that " similarity " between the two objects which \
is thus further shown to have been also implicitly asserted. \
The latent idea of " unity " * would also thus be made
manifest, for they would not then be a true "pair" — not
two creatures of one nature ; for that unity of their nature,
which we thus see was implied in our assertion, " I see two
horses," would thereby be denied. Lastly, if one more
opponent simply said to us, " What you say is not true,"
our assertion thereby would be most plainly contradicted,
and thus we see that the idea of " truth " formed an
integral part of our affirmation. The idea of " truth,"
indeed, is latent in every affirmation. The essential part
of a judgment is the direct (not, of course, reflex) perception
of its truth. Leave that out, and it remains a mere play
of thought,! in which no judgment is passed. But most
certainly " truth " was never felt by any one, and the pre-
sence of that idea in any mental process shows, as does the
presence of the ideas "^stence," "distinction," and " simi-
larity," that such mental process contains more than could
exist in any collection of vivid and faint sensations.

Again, let us suppose that other ideas— such as those of I
" materiality," " life," and " animal nature of a certain kind " \
— latent in the notion and affirmation, " That is a horse," /
be denied. Thus, let us suppose it to be said, "That horse/

* As to the idea of number, see below, chap. xvii.

!• As pointed out by John Stuart Mill. See also below, chap. xvii.

9-

OBJECTIONS. 105^

1 which you think you see is not a material thing, but a mere
j spectral illusion produced by cleverly arranged looking-
{ glasses," or, " It is not alive, but only a stuffed skin," or
j that the objection be again made, " It is not a horse, but
\, a mule ; " then by each of these denials one element of the
• original assertion will be seen to be contradicted, and in
1 each case the denial brings out clearly and makes distinctly
\ known to us, the latent presence of an idea which exceeds
'and differs from any and all our past sensations. The
multitudinous sensuous impressions we have had of dif-
ferent horses of various sizes and colours, have, of course,
had their effect upon our imagination, and reminiscences
of these concur with freshly received impressions to aid us
in eliciting the perception and idea of a horse by a direct
natural process, as before pointed out.* But that the idea
of a " horse " is not a mere amalgam of modified imagina-
tions, or a mere generalized mental image, is plain from
the fact that the imaginations which have helped to call it
forth, may persist in the mind side by side with it, which
they evidently could never do if the idea was made up of
such imaginations. Neither can our idea of a horse be an
imagination generated by antecedent impressions and
imaginations, for the notions implicitly contained within it,
show it to be something of an altogether different kind.
These notions — "existence," "similarity," "distinction,"
i "unity," "truth," "materiality," "life," and "animal exist-
ence of a certain kind," are things beyond the domain of

/y A the senses, and cannot be contained in any mere images

/ i or sense-impressions. To make such an affirmation, then,

t as " That is a horse," is to emit a judgment as to the

j essential nature of the thing perceived — or rather, to make

I a whole series of implicit judgments. If our mind, in every

distinct perception of the kind, has such conceptions really

latent within it, then our idea of any such object must be

a collection of latent judgments, with the perception that

they all relate to one thing, i.e. it must be a perception

of "unity." Thus every perception contains implicitly a

judgment, or rather, a group of judgments.

Let the reader examine what his own mind tells him

* See above, pp. 90, 91.

#

io6

'^

ON TRUTH.

%

'/

The idea
"force."

and we are persuaded that he will see that in perceiving
any body to be "solid," "extended," and "one body," he
has in each case a clear and simple idea, and not an amal-
gam of feelings of " effort," "motion," " pressure," "touch,"
and " sight," however indispensable such feelings may have
been in order to call forth perceptions and ideas of solidity,
extension, and unity. Moreover, the idea of extension may
exist apart from sensations of sight, for it exists for the
blind. It can exist apart from sensations of touch or of
muscular effort, for it may be revealed by sight alone.
The idea can exist unchanged in our minds wdiilc the
extended object we happen to be observing changes from
solid to fluid, from hot to cold, from smooth to rough, from
a state of rest to that of motion, and so on. The idea is
a single idea, although it is aroused within us by a multi-
tude of sensuous experiences of different kinds.* That
such feelings are needed to give birth to our idea of "ex-
tension," does not show that such feelings are the idea of
extension. As well might we say that " gold " is " digging,"
because acts of " digging" may have been needed to enable
us to acquire it. The nature of an idea is one thing ; its
mode of elicitation or acquisition is another and a very
different thing. Thus also our idea of " force " _becomes \
Jgiovvn tougby means of pur sense__of effort, of resistance,
ar]ii^j;esista_nce overcome, and sensations oT'tlTefMrr^fffe
the occasions through dSiST&y which our intellect conies to
perceive that surrounding bodies have powers corresponding'
to our o\vn. Some persons pretend that we thus commit the
absurd mistake of attributing to inanimate bodies around us,
activities absolutely like our own. But, in fact, we only
attribute to such bodies activities which have a certain
analogy with our own. If we try to pull a man up from
the ground, and fail because he is stronger than we, and if'
we try to raise a heavy trunk, and fail because it is too
heavy, we can indeed perceive a certain analogy between
the pulling action of the resisting man and the pulling
of gravity in the heavy trunk. But we also see that there
is a great difference between the two cases, not merely in
the concomitant circumstances only, but also in the essen-

* See also below, chap, xv., " Elements of Perception and Abstraction."

OBJECTIONS. 107

tial natures of the two " pulls." Although in either case
we have more or less similar sensations, yet our intellect
arrives at a quite different result, perceiving in the one
case an active, living power, and in the other case a phy-
sical force. It is similar with respect to the ideas "exten-
sion," " figure," " number," etc. By means of our sensations
and the relations between them, we arrive at something
fundamentally different from either— namely, an apprehen-
sion of external, objective conditions of real independent
bodies, which conditions are utterly unlike the sensations
and relations between sensations that serve to make those
objective conditions known to us. By a comparison of our |
perceptions of "extension," "solidity," "force," "number,"
etc., with the sensations and relations between sensations
which occasion them, we see that the latter are by no
means equivalent to the former, and that in a mere collec-
tion of such feelings we miss the main point, the very
essence, of each such perception which is essentially one
thing — a unity. The reader will, we think, feel the force of
this if he merely reflects how, in his perception of either the
shape, or the firmness, or the power of a cricket ball, he
apprehends one thing, and not a collection or assemblage
of " feelingsJ'
\ But here it may be further objected that our belief in simple a,id

\ •/ ■' coinpouna

\the unity of such ideas is a mistake, and that though theyT^'^-^'".^^-
Beem to us simple, they may yet be really compound. In
proof of the possibility of such a deception, our feeling of
fnusical sound has been brought forward as an instance
bf a mistake of the kind. It is true that we may first hear
a succession of distinct taps or beats, and that these may
get quicker and quicker, till they can no longer be identified
as separate " states of consciousness," while there arises,
instead of them, the sound of a musical tone. It is also
true that, as the beats get quicker and quicker, the tone
will go on rising in pitch till it again becomes inaudible,
while, if certain other beats take place simultaneously, we
then get that quality of sound called "■ timbre" These
facts may also be made more striking by holding a vibrat-
ing musical fork between the teeth, for thus we are enabled
to feel through the teeth the jarring sensation of the beats,

^/'-

M'

^z,/

ON TRUTH.

while at the same time we hear the musical tone. On
account of these facts it has been asserted that our sense
of hearing deceives us into the belief that our feelings of
" musical tone " and of " timbre " are simple feelings, while
all the time they are really compound, and made up of
transformed feelings of vibration. Hence it has been
further argued that as our senses may thus deceive us in
leading us to believe a sensation to be simple when it is
really compound, so also it may well be that an idea we
think to be one, may also be really compound and made up
of transformed sensations.

Now, granting in the first place, if only for argument's
sake, that a feeling of " a musical tone " or of " timbre "
is each really a unity and quite single, as supposed by
this objection, let us see whether even thus the argument
so brought forward will hold water.

A pure and simple " feeling of musical tone" and
! nothing else, cannot be felt to be made up of " feelings of
^ ra|)icl beats," though. it may succeed tkem,. for if it was felt
j to be thus compound, it could not at the same time — as
in the argument we are considering — be felt to be simple.
It must, therefore, be supposed to be made up of minute
feelings of throbs which are not felt. But an unfelt feeling
is impossible ; it is a contradiction in terms. To say that
the feelings thus felt to be different, are fundamentally the
; same, because of the fundamental similarity of the cause
which calls them forth, is to confound the physical con-
ditions of feelings with the feelings themselves. We might
just as well say, if a certain number and velocity of taps
caused us a pleasant feeling, while an increase in their
rapidity caused us pain, that pleasure and pain are the
same thing, or that pain is made up of a number of small
unnoticed pleasures. Tlius_ this argument against the
Ji£lti:_an4..gijHn;Ieness .of dui" Ideas falls to the ground. But
though we have considered it on the assumption that a
feeling of musical tone or timbre is a perfectly simple
unity of feeling, we are by no means sure that such is in ^
fact the case. We recollect well, when listening in the \
Baptistery of Pisa to the reflected musical chord produced i
by the successive singing of four notes, that our sensation j

OBJECTIONS. 109//

i seemed to us to be by no means a purely simple sensation.
' Whether, however, such a feeling is or is not a simple
unity of sensation, we are quite certain that it is a perfect
and simple unity oi perception, and it was the unity of each
of our perceptions of the extension, shape, firmness, and
power of the cricket ball which we affirmed. We were
far indeed from denying the multiplicity of the feelings
underlying each such perception.

But to show yet more clearly that by the help of our
feelings we can perceive what is altogether beyond feeling,
we may consider the force and real meaning of a few
expressions in frequent use. Thus we often speak of our
" experience," and the idea is a familiar one to most people.
Yet the icfea cannot be a faint reproduction of past feelings,
for " experience " was never felt — not even as a mode in
which past feelings have stood to one another. By the
repetition over and over again of feelings of the same or
of different kinds, we may find it easier to feel them, or
they may become more pleasurable to us or less so. But
to undergo such changes in feeling, and to obtain the idea
" experience," are two very different things. Feelings of
ease, of pleasure, or of pain, may blend with the sensations
the repetition of which occasions them, but the idea 'jfxp'^- ^■r^
rieac€,,lUs_the conception of something which, a^ it were, _z
stands beside and contemplates past feelings, or the objects
and circumstances which have given rise to them, in
• ^relation to some continuously existing being who is the
\ Subject of such experience. Let the reader ask himself
Whether in saying, " I have experienced something," or,
" Some one else has had an experience of a definite kind,"
he does not mean to refer to some objective modification
induced in himself or in some one else, and not merely to
some change in feelings or in the relations of feelings to
one another. Again, we who see, can all form an idea of
our act of seeing, yet that act of seeing was never itself
felt, nor was it even a relation between feelings. We
' may have a certain feeling in our eye-balls when looking,
but even if we could feel every most minute action of
every part of the eye's complex mechanism, such feelings
would no more be an " act of seeing," than opening

T 10

/// ON TRUTH.

a shutter would be the same thing as seeing a landscape
which it, while unopened, hid from view. We have, of
course, seen very many sights, but our act of sight itself
was never one of them. Yet we all know very well what
it is, and we all constantly speak familiarly about it.
Amongst things seen, we continually see colours, and
have different feelings accordingly. We, however, never
feel or see " colour," though we know well enough what
the conception or idea " colour " is, and we frequently and \^
familiarly use it. It is often remarked that time is felt
to pass more rapidly by the aged — that months to the old
man appear no longer than weeks to the young man.
This may be the case as regards feeling, but not as regards
the intellect. The old man does not intellectually recognize
months to be weeks.

We„iiave another example of apprehending what wa.s
never felt, in the idea we form of what we mean by the
term " nothing," or " nonentity." That evidently cannot
be a faint revival of past sensations or relations between
sensations, for we could never feel "nonentity," nor
could it ever be a mode of feeling, since every mode of
feeling or relation between feelings, must be some mode
or some relation, and therefore cannot be " nothing."
As we have already seen, it is impossible to imagine '.
" nonentity," though, by the help of transient images, |
our intellect can conceive of it.* We show by expressions ;
we constantly use that we can conceive of it and have a I
definite idea about it. How commonly we hear it said, I
" That is worth nothing," or, " It is empty ; there is |
nothing left in it " ! It may perhaps be said, in reply, that
the idea " nothing " is no idea at all, and that to apprehend
it is no conception of the mind, but simply the absence of
any conception — i.e. that not " to conceive " is the same
thing as " to not conceive." Such a reply, however, would
be a very erroneous one. " To not conceive " is a mere
expression of passivity, and the " absence of any con-
ception" in the mind leaves the mind a blank. But when
we say " nothing can make itself," or " nonentity cannot
act," the mind is not a blank, and it is also active, for we

* See above, p. 88.

6>^

OBJECTIONS. fl IlA/

thereby make judgments. Such expressions the mind can
understand. They are very different from what they would
be if a mere blank took the place of the idea and word

" nothing," as is easily shown experimentally : " can

make itself," and " can act," are expressions without

meaning, but let the word and conception " nothing " be

substituted for the blanks, and their meaning becomes clear.

\ It is also plain that we understand the idea expressed

I by the words " nothing " or " nonentity," since we can

! distinguish them clearly from all other ideas. But if our

: intellect has thus the power of apprehending, through

K sensation, things that never were, and never could be felt,

why should we distrust its assurance that it tells us truly

concerning at least some of the real objective qualities of

bodies ? That it can and does so tell us is, however, one

of those self-evident truths which need no proof, and which

cannot be denied without self-stul^jjfication. For if we see

that any two things are alike, we must know that they have

the real objective condition of " being deemed by us to be

alike," since otherwise they might at the same time be

deemed by us to be alike and not deemed by us to be alike,

which would violate the principle of contradiction, and so

land us in absolute, universal scepticism, which, as we have

seen, is mere absurdity.

It thus becomes evident that we can know some real
objective conditions^of bodies. Nor is this, after all, excep-
tionally wonderful, for we Kave seen in the third chapter *
that we know objective truth as regards our own continued
existence, and if we know truth about one such existence, it
becomes probable that we may know the same about other
existences also. It also becomes evident that ideas ^nd
sensations are very different, apart ftom.. their-^i^idness,
\ as also that ideas are not collecjiJQi;^ jp£ i,mi9.filfef3. Ir,?^'"°^-'^t
and fliaf'we can know some real objective conditions"oi
bodies. "~"*

We have, indeed, said more than once that " nothing can|/,„^^/„a-
be imagined which has not been experienced by our sensi- ^|,';,",^"^„.
tive faculty ;" but many things may be conceived of whicli^
have never been thus experienced, for there is a"" great!
* See above, p. 36.

I 12

ON TRUTH.

u

\

difference between our powers of imagination and of con-
K/jh ception. That which is unpicturable may be conceivable,
'» '• and the abstraction which is impossible to the imagination
may be easy to conception. That our power of conception

I is not tied down to experience, is shown by the fact that we

I can conceive of our possessing other senses than we have

' — senses which should inform us, for example, about the
magnetic condition, crystalline construction, or chemical
composition of bodies, and we can conceive of our own
annihilation. But nothing can show more clearly that we
can conceive of what we have never felt and can never
imagine, than the fact that we can think and speak of a
world neither light nor dark, but in an utterly unimagin-
able condition, and of bodies entirely devoid of colour.
For it is certainly impossible for us to imagine a world
utterly devoid of light, and yet not dark, or to imagine
absolutely tmcoloiired objects, however neutral the tint or
transparent the appearance which they may seem to our
imagination to present. There are thus four very dis-
tinct kinds of propositions which may be proposed for our
acceptance —

\ (i) Those which can be both imagined and seen by our

I intellect to be true ;

(2) Those which can be imagined, but which are seen
not to be true (as that centaurs and mermaids are real
living beings) ;
^ \ (3) Those which cannot be imagined, but which can be

I conceived of as true ;

\ (4) Those which cannot be imagined, and are also seen

\to be positively and absolutely impossible.*
'^, ■ , n ,^ Thus, over and above acts of sensation and imagination,

1 he intellect ' "

as ci factor. ^^ actiou of tlic intellect has not only, as before said,t
ever to be taken into account, but the highest place
must also be assigned to it. Though many men would
assign to our sensitive faculty the dignity of acting as our
supreme and ultimate test of reality and truth, we unhesi-
tatingly afifirm that it is the intellect alone which is supreme,
and this not only in judging about abstract matters, but
also in judging of matters of which the senses take cog-
* .See above, p. 41. t See above, pp. 88, 89.

I IIILC

y^ / not
^\ livii

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OBJECTIONS.

I I

nizance. People who believe in the ordinary way about the
■ mdependent existence of the "external world, must rely
j upon their intellect exclusively, with respect to all questions
j which cannot be submitted to the examination of the
: senses. But even with respect to all matters which can be
so submitted to the test of sense, the last word in all cases
of doubt rests with the intellect and not with the senses.
It might seem that in making experiments with different
bodies (as in chemistry) to see what their actions or the
result of their actions may be-it might seem, we say, in
such matters wherein we directly appeal to our senses for
information, that it is those senses which are our ultimate
criterion, and that their declarations must be supreme
\et such IS not in fact the case. The enormous value of
our sensations is not for one moment to be contested
and we have already admitted and asserted that it is by
and through our sensations that all our knowledge is ini-
tiated. Observation and experiment are always, of course
to be made use of when possible for verifying our deduc-
tive reasonings; nevertheless, in the last resource, when
we have done observing and experimenting, how do we
know that we have obtained such results as we may have
obtained through these processes, save by the intellect ?
How are we to judge between what may seem to be the
conflicting indications of different sense impressions ?
Nothing could be more foolish than to undervalue the
testimony of the senses, and the senses are truly a test
and cause of certainty, but they are not the test of it
Certainty is not in sensation, though sensatl^ is so con-
stantly our means of acquiring it. Certainty belongs to
thought, and to thought only. Self-conscious, reflective
thought, then, IS our ultimate and absolute criterion It is
by thought only-by the self-conscious intellect-that we
know we have " feelings " at all. Without that we mi-ht
indeed feel, but we could not know that we felt or knew
ourselves in feeling. Our ultimate court of appeal and\
supreme criterion is the intellect, and not sense, and that \-
act of intellectual perception which is thus ultimate, we ]
may call " intellectual intuition." /

I Now, what does our intellect tell us about the primary

I

ii4>/y

ON TRUTH.

itsdedara- and sccondaiy qualities of bodies? Surely it tells us |
v!aiHi7s' that just as we apprehend the former by sensations ;
which are more or less different from the primary quali- j
ties they reveal, so sensations of colour, sound, etc., reveal
to us other objective qualities of bodies which are more
or less different from the sensations themselves which |
reveal them. Moreover, it tells us that the objects may
have similar objective secondary qualities, though the
sensations revealing them are different, or may have dif-
ferent objective secondary qualities while the sensations
which reveal them are similar. For colours are distin-
guishable by us as belonging to two different categories,
which may be called intrinsic and extrijisic respectively.
By intrinsic colours we mean those which are permanently
present in the bodies which show them, which are steady
and do not vary when looked at from different points of
view, and are not due to the colour of any transparent
medium through which they are seen, or the reflection of
any hue upon them. Such intrinsic colours are exhibited
by most natural objects when viewed near at hand. As
example.s,of.£xtrinsic colours, may be taken those due to a
coloured medium through which any object may be viewed,
or colours reflected upon objects or colours devoid of per-
manence which come and go with the motion of an object,
or according to the direction in which it may be viewed.
Now, the stable colours of objects, intrinsic colours, are
indeed naturally taken by ordinary persons to be the real
colours of the objects themselves. But when they see any
object which presents a mere play of iridescent colour and
changing opalescent tints varying with every movement,
a moment's thought suffices to show them that they have
therein something different from ordinary colour — some-
thing depending not only on the object's colour, but also on
other different conditions. A similar distinction may be
drawn between two categories of sounds, which may also
be named respectively, intrinsic and extrinsic sounds. By
irilri-nsic-S£muds,_\ve mean sounds, however initiated, which
are given forth by one body from its own substance for a
more or less appreciably prolonged duration. Such are
musical notes, the ringing sound of a bell, or the reverberat-

•fc"

t

OBJECTIONS.

115

'^

ing sonorousness of a gong. As examples of extrinsic
sounds maybe cited the sounds made by one body striking
upon another, as by the wheels of a cart rumbling along a
road, the ticking of a clock, or by reflected (that is, echoed)
sounds, through which a mere rock may seem to articulate
words or even sentences. Thus, in the illustration before
given * of the various elements required to co-operate in the
production of such a sound as the striking of a clock, it is the
ringing of the bell which is the intrinsic sound ; and this is
also necessarily accompanied by an extrinsic sound — namely,
the sound of the contact of the hammer and the bell, apart
from the ringing thereby induced. Though ordinarily
unnoticed, because drowned in the sound of the ringing,
this extrinsic sound must be present, since the blow of the
hammer on the bell must produce some sounds

Our intellect, then, seems to tell us that, through our
sensations, we perceive secondary as well as primary
qualities of different kinds and orders, which are different
from the sensations theniselves but }'et give us a prac-
tically serviceable and not mendacious knowledge of such
qualities. And the correctness of this belief is, as we
shall see, at least so far incontestable that the common
belief must be nearer the truth than the negation of it
can possibly be. Yet we are sometimes told that in the
absence of organs of sense, silence and darkness would
envelope the world. Now, our idea of " light " may pro-
bably be quite inadequate to make the essence of light
known to us as we may conceive of its being known by
some nature much higher than ours. But, nevertheless, our
idea of " light " is, at any rate, more like objective light
than is our idea of darkness. It is a great mistake, then,
to think that in the absence of sense-organs the world
would have neither light nor sound, and that continual
darkness would envelop such perfectly silent motions as
might still exist. For to speak of such an unseen world
as dark, is to express objective existence in merely sub-
jective terms after all. Such a world would be neither
light nor dark, but in a condition absolutely unimaginable
by us, and one which we may far more reasonably think
* See above, p. 92.

6-

ii6

ON TRUTH.

of as possessing light, than as plunged in darkness. For
since we suppose the sun, moon, and stars, meteors,
volcanoes, and phosphorescent organisms to exist in it as
now they do, all the objective conditions of light, save
sense-organs, would, by the hypothesis, be present, while
the objective conditions of what, to our senses, is darkness,
would not be present. Though all " sensations " would,
of course, vanish from an insentient universe, yet the
objective qualities those sensations make known to us
would continue to exist. Other persons think that they
get nearer to the absolute truth of things by considering
colours and sounds to be really " modes of motion " —
different orders and degrees of " vibrati.ojQ5." But, as we
have seen, the very same cavils may be brought against the
validity of our perceptions of primary qualities as against
our perceptions of secondary ones, and those who dispute
the truth of the latter may logically resolve our ideas of
vibration, extension, and motion, into groups of muscular
sensations and the relations between them. But " groups
of muscular sensations " must be at least as unlike the
objective causes of light, colour, and sound, as are those
conceptions of light, colour, and sound which ordinarily
prevail !

Armed with the foregoing considerations, let us now
apply ourselves to the various objections which have been
made to the validity of the ordinary apprehensions of
mankind with respect to the secondary qualities of bodies,
especially as concerns colours and sounds, though
analogous considerations equally apply to all the other
secondary qualities.
Objections "^ The vcracity of our apprehensions of colours is in the

as to colours .

and sounds, first placc unpugued on the ground that the appearance

of bright coloration may be induced by merely engraving
minute furrows on the surface of a body, and by other
changes in the conditions of its surface structure only, or
in its shape and thickness, as in the well-known case of the
soap-bubble. But suchji-jiigsceat and opalescent hues are
forms of extrinsic colour, which, as we have seen, is b'y no
' means apprehended by us as being the same thing as
intrinsic colour. Therefore our judgments are not misled

i

OBJECTIONS. I I 7

by such sense-impressions which indicate to us the ex-
istence of some real objective difference between extrinsic
and intrinsic colours, even before the advance of optical
science enables us to detect some of the conditions which
determine the existence of the former. Such appearances
no more necessarily deceive us than those produced by
the reflection of coloured light on an object, or the inspec-
tion of it through stained glass or some other coloured
medium. No reasonable man considers that a landscape
has become really purple or orange because he happens to
see it through purple or orange glass, and our faculties are
not to be reckoned as mendacious because, through want
of ordinary knowledge or care, an extrinsic colour may
occasionally be mistaken for an intrinsic one.

An analogous objection concerning sound has been'
made as follows: "When vibrations become very rapid,,
our subjective impressions undergo a change of kind,/
namely, a change from feelings of successive beats to a|
feeling of musical tone. But, objectively, there is no
corresponding change. There is objectively nothing but
a series of vibrations which become more and more rapid,
but v/hich always remain, what they were at first, namely,
vibrations. Therefore our feelings here intimate to us
the existence of a change which nevertheless has no real
existence in the things which affect our feelings."
j Now, in the first place, as we before observed, it is not
I clear to us that our feelings of musical tone are so purely
jsimple as this objection would represent them to be. But
the question of the veracity of our faculties does not
depend on the quality, multiplicity, or even on the distinct
recognition of our sensations, but upon the perceptions
they induce. Unfelt sensations (unheard sounds) cannot,
of course, exist, but they are not to be considered as "un-
felt," merely because the distinct limits which distinguish
each may not be perceptible to us. We feel the sensations
(feel the colours) of the rainbow, though we cannot see their
limits, as they seem to pass imperceptibly one into another
Truth, indeed,* is not felt, nor is it in sensations at all,'
but in the intellect which judges by the help of sensations.)
* Sec al)(ive, p. 104.

ii8.

ON TRUTH.

If:

Effects of '
bodily ill-
juries on
07ir percep-
tions.

0-

X

o

Now, the sensations of successive beats, and of musical
tone, and of timbre, induced through different rates and
groups of vibrations, do not necessarily lead to false judg-
ments about the facts. We know that bodies may vibrate
so rapidly that our ears cannot hear the intrinsic sounds
they emit. Only some human ears can detect the shrill
notes of the bat. It is surely probable that at the other
end oTThe scale there may be musical notes emitted by
bodies which vibrate too slowly for our ears to detect their
intrinsic tones. But the sounds produced by beats and
taps are extrinsic sounds. We can, however, only hear
some extrinsic as well as some intrinsic sounds. Now, I
when we at first hear "beats" and afterwards hear a
" musical tone," this change in us does not necessarily
indicate an objective change. Our natural and spontaneous
judgment is that at first we hear sounds — beats — produced
by a vibrating body (extrinsic sounds), and that afterwards
we hear sounds /;/ a vibrating body (intrinsic sounds), and
such is in fact the case. There is an objective duality as
well as a subjective duality, although our ears can only
hear small portions of cither of the two series of objective
sonorous qualities. Let the reader ask himself, when after
hearing the vibrations of a body without a musical tone he
suddenly comes to hear its musical note, but not its vibra-
tions, whether this experience of his induces him to judge
that there is any objective change in the vibrating body
like the change which has suddenly taken place in his
sense of hearing. We are persuaded he will reply that it
does not, but only tells him that he has ceased to hear from
it sounds of one order, and has begun to hear from it sounds
of another order. If so, then his senses do not deceive him,
are not mendacious, and the objection is fallacious.

But it may be further objected that the effects of some
bodily injuries serve to show that the testimony of our
senses is not trustworthy. Men who have had a leg ampu-
tated may still sometimes have feelings as if the leg was
still on, and as if they had pains in toes no longer possessed
by them. Our perceptions, therefore, it may be argued,
are but the result of the conditions under which we live ;
and, were these fundamentally changed, then what at

OBJECTIONS. 119.

i present seem to us to be the most certain of truths, might
appear to us to be absolute impossibilities. But no one is so
. foolish as to pretend that our perceptions are independent
: of our bodily organization, and if that organization be
I impaired, the action of our sensitive faculty, which depends
I upon our organization, will be impaired likewise. If our
organization ought to be such as to guide us truly under
the normal and ordinary conditions of life, it is impossible
for it to be simultaneously so organized as to guide us
truly under quite opposite conditions. And after all, even
though a man whose leg has been amputated may suffer
from, pain which feels to him like a painful affection of his
toes, yet he is not thereby led to perceive a leg as present,
which has been cut off. His eyesight and his sense of!
touch enable him perfectly well to control and direct hisj
judgment rightly, in spite of the abnormal feelings which
may accompany his abnormal condition. But can we
expect that our organization would act normally when
abnormally injured or distorted? A hydra is capable of
being turned inside out without apparently much incon-
v^enience. If we could so undergo a similar operation, no
doubt the world about us would bear a singularly modified
aspect ; but surely that man would be an unreasonable
grumbler who complained because his organization was not
so arranged as to give him accurate notions of things while
he was thus introverted.

In order to show that our perceptions and our con-
victions about the truth of things are simply due to the
conditions which surround us, and therefore cannot be
absolutely relied upon, the singular conception, already
considered by us,* was put forward which supposed the
existence of intelligent creatures inhabiting only two
\ dimensions of space. But, as we before pointed out, men
bringing forward such a supposition, and representing what
the perceptions of such creatures would necessarily be,
must at least think they know absolute geometric truth,
for otherwise their whole argument would be baseless.

It may, perhaps, be objected that nevertheless deceptions' ^dc('£L>
of the senses are of constant occurrence; that distant! i-f;„^l"

* See above, p. 47. '

%

I 20 ON TRUTH.

mountains look purple, and yet are not purple ; that objects
look different in size and shape as we change our place
with respect to them, while all the time, in reality, they
remain the same in size and shape ; that under the
influence of alcohol one object may appear as two objects ; \
and that, even without this excitation, a pea held between
the adjacent sides of our crossed fingers will feel not like
one pea, but like two peas. But there is no real sense-
deception in all this, though it is possible that there may
occasionally be a mistaken inference. Distant mountains
look purple, and are purple as seen by us. That is to say,
such mountains, with a given thickness of atmosphere
under certain conditions, have together a purple aspect.
But who is so simple as to believe that the purple is in
the mountains themselves, or expects to find them purple
when he actually gets to them .^ A person might as well
impugn the accuracy of his senses because when he takes
up a piece of yellow glass, and looks at an object through
it, his senses do not, for his convenience, remove the yellow
from the glass, instead of his being left to his common
sense to perceive that the yellow belongs to the medium
he looks throuo^h, and not to the object he looks at The
fact that objects appear differently in different positions,
we not only admit, but have called attention to in the last
chapter.* Our purpose in so doing was to prove that in
Tception it is the object itself which is perceived, and not
the sensations, or subjective signs, it occasions in us ; since
while the latter change, the perception of the object remains
unchanged. Thus in such matters our senses in no way
deceive us. TJie same object looks differently to us when
from different points of view, but is perceived to be
Lally, in itself, not different. It looks differently because,
though not really dificrent in itself, it is really different in
its relation to us — that is, in its relative position with respect
to ourselves. The senses would be deceitful and not
veracious if they still showed us the south and west sides
of a tower after we had walked round from a position
opposite to its south-west angle, to a position opposite
to its north-east angle. If we first stand so that the spire

* See above, p. 91.

i,

OBJECTIONS. I 2 I^

of one church exactly hides from us that of another church,
only one spire being visible, and if we then move and so ^^
come to see two spires, that does not show that we have
been deceived by our senses. If we had doubted, when
standing at our first point of view, as to whether two or
only one spire existed, and if, without trying by change
of place to test the fact, we judged at once that there
was but one spire, then we should have fallen into an
error of judgment richly deserved from our carelessness in
making it. Similarly, changes in the apparent distance or
proximity between the two spires, occasioned by change
of place on our part, are perfectly "veracious. Such
changes do, in fact, take place through our motion, which
does occasion change between the relative positions of the
two spires and ourselves. The senses would be deceitful
indeed if, while we walked round two objects, the sense-
impressions received from them underwent no change.
The objection with respect to the action of alcohol hardly
deserves reply. By the action of that sU-Bstance our sense;
organs are apt to become functionally disordered. Now
die only action of a sense-organ is to excite feelings. That
a disordered sense-organ, then, should occasion disordered
feelings is only what might be expected, and is what
nothing but a miracle could avert. We might as well
expect to see perfectly through a telescope, some of the
lenses of which had been removed, as to see accurately
with eyes, the organization of which had been thus tempo-,
rarily impaired. The objection drawn from the feelingsl
occasioned by a pea held between two fingers which are\
crossed, may be met as follows : no one would affirm that
the mere touch of a surface can occasion a knowledge
as to bulk and solidity ; for this there must be added
thereto the sense of resistance. If, then, with the fore and
middle fingers of the right hand we touch simultaneously
two opposite surfaces, and find we cannot bring our fingers
together, the feeling naturally arises (from long expe-
rienced associations of sensations) that an obstacle in
the form of a continuous, solid body lies between them —
an obstacle situated to the right of our forefinger and
to the left of our middle finder. If this feelin"; is adverted

^

/

12 2^ ON TRUTH.

to by consciousness and accepted, it is a true inference.
If it is a mere feeling not adverted to by consciousness,
then it is a practically inferential feeling brought about
by antecedent sensuous associations like those of animals 'i

noticed * in the foregoing chapter. If now we simul-
taneously touch an object with the same fingers crossed,
the resistance experienced will be on the left of our fore-
finger and on the right of our middle finger, and a sensuous,
practical inference thence arises that there is a solid body \

/ on the right of the middle finger and also on the left of the |-

forefinger, and so there is. But these are positions which, I

under ordinary circumstances, it is impossible for any single \.

body to hold, and so we may hastily and incorrectly infer
that there are two bodies — two peas — present, and such
is the practical and natural, sensuous inference which
results from long antecedent associations of sensations.

' Therefore in such a phenomenon there is no real sense-
deception. Various ingenious instruments have been
invented which produce optical illusions, such, for example,
as that of the stereoscope. The human intellect being able
so to arrange objects as to invert the impressions ordinarily
made by them on our senses, we might be sure, a priori,
that such an inversion would also invert (so to speak) the
effects produced. The results of such arrangements are
all explicable on the same principle which we have made
use of to explain the difficulty about the pea which may
be made to feel as if it were two peas, and no such con-
trivances can ever show that our senses really deceive us.

" But," it may be further argued, "granting that our sense

perceptions may be trusted about a small object, with

respect to which we may bring more than one sense-organ

into play, they cannot be trusted where we can but employ

v^ / a single sense, as we learn with respect to the sun's motion,

' about which men were grossly deceived for centuries by
their eyesight." But, in fact, they were not deceived at all
by their eyesight, they drew an inference! too hastily
/from true perceptions, as a little reflection will, w£^ JluukrX— -v.

/ make obvious. Our sight gives us no information at all f

A

\t

^ * See above, p. 94.

t As before said, p. 95.

OBJECTIOXS. 123

j with respect to motion itself, but only with respect to
j changes of relative position between objects. Thus, when
we are in motion ourselves, we may be utterly unconscious
of it, save for jolts, jars, the feeling of the air, and other
bodily incidents which form no elements of motion, but are
only accidental accompaniments of it. When travellers in
a balloon ascend from the earth, they are said to have no
feeling whatever of motion. It is only by looking down
that they can discover any change; and then the earth's
surface appears to be sinking away from beneath themi
As to moving objects round us, we do not see motion in\
them, but only a change of position relatively to each other, I
or relatively to ourselves. These phenomena of the senses!
give rise in us to our intellectual apprehension of motion^
and of movement in things ; but that apprehension, reflec-
tion shows us, does not take place without inference. With /f^Jr^
regard to the motion of the sun, there really is this relative j^
change of position, a fact about which the senses give us
accurate information. Our perception of this relative change
of place does certainly awaken in our intellect the idea and
perception of motion, but it does not, for it cannot, tell us
where the motion is, without processes of examination and
inference. The supposed perception of the sun's motion is
an instance of an inference, not noted perhaps at the time
as an inference, but clearly seen on reflection to have been
an inference. It is impossible for any one to really see the
sun move. If we fix our eyes on it at sunset, we shall
indeed, from second to second, see that it has more and
more disappeared ; but we cannot see it move. As to the
motion of the sun, the mass of men never think about it ;
those that first did think about it inferred that it moved,
and their inference, imbedded ia language, has so affected
us, that to this day every one speaks of " the sun setting,"
even though they may know quite well that it does not set,
and that" it is the revolving earth which gradually hides it
from our view. That which men's senses ever did, and do
make known, is " motion between the earth and the sun "
— changes in the sun's place with relation to the earth —
fand such changes do really take place. Therefore, in none
.of these instances do the senses deceive us.

124/

'1^

ON TRUTH.

'yreaming

"''/

<■

^i

>^

But the certainty of knowledge may be objected to on
the ground that we cannot be sure the whole of life is
not a dream. It may be said, " If a man passed half his
life in a sleep, in which he always dreamt a continuation of
the same dream, he would not know which was his true life
and which was his dream ; and, therefore, we cannot be
certain that our whole life is not some sort of dream." It is
certainly true that we may have prolonged dreams which are
very vivid and the parts of which form a continuous, con-
sistent series of representations. It is also true that during
them we may suffer distress or enjoy rapture as great as in
our waking moments, and this without the slightest doubt
or feeling of unreality with respect to what we seem to
experience in such dreams. For all that, however, so great
a difference exists between what we call " our dreaming "
and " our waking states" — considered merely as subjective
phenomena — that we have no difficulty in distinguishing
between them when we are in that state which we call
" being awake." Then we have a power of influencing the
current of our thoughts, and of dwelling at will in a state
of "contemplation of some object " in a way which we have
not, in that state we call "being asleep." Also, while we
are in what we call " our waking state," we can test our
perceptions by the use, for that purpose, of different senses.
If we think we see before us some object — for example, a
bunch of grapes — we may confirm the apparent testimony
of our eyesight by touching the grapes, or smelling them,
or tasting them. We may also have recourse to a special
class of feelings, which we may distinguish as " the testi-
mony of other people." We may ask bystanders whether
the object is or not a bunch of grapes, and, through their
reply, our sense of hearing may come to corroborate the
witness of our other senses. When we are what we call
"asleep," we cannot do these things. It is true that during
a disagreeable dream we may sometimes console ourselves
b}' an assurance that it is only a dream. It is true also
that occasionally we may rejoice or grieve because a dream
we are having is not a dream but the very truth, when all
the time we are mistaken, and it is nothing but a dream.
Still, even in such a case as this, when we do wake and find

^

OBJECTIONS. I 2 5^

out that the dream we were so sure was real, is only a
dream, we can make ourselves certain about it in a very
different way from what we could when asleep. For never,

' when thus mistaken during sleep, do we reflect that we are
making use simultaneously of different faculties to test the
reality of our persuasion ; whereas, while awake, we can
not only thus test the reality of our persuasion, but reflect
that we are so testing it. We can thus take note how
much more complete our assurance about the true nature
of our state is when awake, than is any assurance we can
obtain while dreaming. When awake, we may think over /^
what we have done, what we are doing, and what we shall
do ; we may recollect past dreams, and compare them with
the objects around us, and compare the actions we seem ,
to perform in sleep with the feelings experienced by us in i
what we deem our " real bodily activity." There are also }
other contrasts between "dreaming" and "waking." In I
" our dreaming state " we often have confused, inconsistent, \
chaotic impressions and perceptions. Appearances may ^
come suddenly to an end, and we may have a series of

, imaginations which have no continuity or felt connection.
We never seem to use a vigorous will ; and there is
generally present a sense, as it were, of passivity and of
being borne along independently of our volition. The
successive periods of what we call " our waking state," on
: the other hand, are clear, orderly, and distinctly connected,
i and they form a consistent series, without sudden and
abrupt transitions and inconsistent changes of scene, of
which we can give no account or explanation whatever,
while we can employ our will and recognize our own
activity. Thus, " dreaming" and " waking " can be clearly)
distinguished^*^

Let us next consider the sweeping objection that our Tiu/'ossibu

... , , , 1 . ,- 1 X di-reit/ulness

V faculties generally may be deceitful. In the very first of our
chapter of this work we saw * that the position of the
absolute sceptic is, from its unreasonableness, incapable
of refutation as well as of defence. If we granted, as
we have granted, that it is possible for a man to doubt
about his own existence, we may well grant that it is

* See above, p. 7.

126

ON TRUTH.

possible for him to doubt about the trustworthiness of
his mental faculties generally, and therefore about the
real and independent existence of the world, to which ex-
( istence his faculties seem to testify. But we altogether
! deny that such doubts are legitimate, while fully conceding
j that they are possible. It is, however, as impossible for
any one, without contradicting himself, to show that his
mental powers are untrustworthy as to uphold any other
absolutely sceptical position. For a man must implicitly
and_jTira£;ticany admltihe veracity of his faculties in order
to prove themjto be_felJacious,,since he can only prove they
lallacious by the exercise of those very faculties the
racity of which he would call in question. The accuracy
leceitfulness of the testimony of the senses, as appre-
hended by conscious reason, can only be tested by the ex-
ercise of the senses, as apprehended by conscious reason.
It is, therefore, incapable of either proof or disproof But
the fact that we are unable logically to prove their veracity
Idoes not afford us any ground for distrusting them. We
[have already seen that those things which are most certain
ire incapable of proof and need none, because they are self-
^'ident. In this respect the declarations of consciousness as
to sense are similar to the declarations of consciousnes;^ as to
self-knowledge, the trustworthiness of memory, the principle
^of contradiction, and the validity of the reasoning process.
Thus, he who upholds the trustworthiness of our sensitive
faculties, as of our other faculties, is consistent throughout,
and each part of the system he adheres to, gives strength
to every other part of it. But the impugner of the trust-
worthiness of the senses cuts the ground from under him-
self, since, as all knowledge is initiated by sense-perceptions,
he can only doubt his senses by trusting and accepting
what he professes to believe to be their testimony. Never-
theless, as we have asserted in the preceding chapter,
it is intellect and not sense which is the final judge
and criterion of our certainty ; and though the ultimate
facts of sensation are as certain and indisputable as
the other ultimate declarations of our faculties, yet they
are often misinterpreted. Though the facts of sensation
are self-evident, we may judge wrongly as to what they

f

OBJECTIONS. I 2 /

point to. On the other hand, the harmony which exists
amongst the several senses, is ever giving us stronger and .
stronger grounds for trusting them. Every one knows how |
constantly his sense of touch or sight confirms a testimony!
previously given by his sight or his hearing ; nor will any ',
one, who has not some eccentric theory to maintain, deem
it probable that our senses thus harmoniously conspire to
lead us into one and the same error, since truth is one,
whilst error is manifold.

And it is certainly a vain attempt to prove that we are Onrperccp-

., , , . , , tions ez'cn of

necessarily led mto error by our senses even as regards secondary
the secondary qualities of bodies. No one has ever shown, cannotlc
or can, we believe, show that it is impossible for our mendacious.
intellect to obtain, through our sensations of colour and
sound, smell and taste, the truest notions that it is possible
for us to have, of the objective causes of colour, sound,
odour, and savour. That objective cause must, in each case,
be admitted by every one to be occult and unknown to
us except as it may be made more or less known to us by
the sensations it occasions. Therefore it cannot be denied
that there may be such a conformity between objective
qualities and the subjective feelings they give rise to, that
those feelings may be the most fit means for bringing
such objective, occult qualities home to our understand-
ing. Though no dfouBt inadequate to tell us the whole \
story, such sensations may nevertheless be the best, or the
only practicable, way of enabling us to know as much as

iwe can know about such occult qualities. Thus our faculties
of sensation, though they may be imperfect, are not men-
dacious faculties.
And, indeed, if our intellect has, as we know it has,
the power of making external objects present to it, it is
not wonderful that it should also have the power of making
the qualities of objects present to it — i.e. to the intellect.
Nor is it a bit more wonderful that, not the sensations,
but the apprehensions they give rise to, should have a
certain real likeness to the objective qualities themselves,
than that our apprehensions of the objects which have the
qualities should be like the objects themselves.

We may be asked, " How is such knowledge possible ? \/pc

process
rceiving

ON TRUTH.

the un- I " How can the
!/iscriaaMc.\ external thinq's

intellect make present to itself either
or their qualities ? " The same answer
must here be given to these questions, as was before
given * to a similar question about our perception of
absolute and universal truth. We know, as a fact, that
we do perceive things themselves, and not mere images
of them, and we know that our perception of them makes
us certain that they can and do exist quite independently
of our perception of them ; but how it is such knowledge
is possible is as insoluble a mystery as how sensation is
possible, or how life or even existence itself is possible.
There are many things about which we know "facts"
without knowing " how they come to be facts." But our
ignorance of such " modes " in no way tempts us to
doubt as to the " facts " themselves. Thus, we know that
bodies attract each other according to the law of gravity ;
we know that water, though contracting in bulk towards
the freezing point, yet expands in freezing ; and we know
that many monkeys of the New World have prehensile
tails, but that none such exist in the Old World. The cer-
tainty of men of science as to these facts, however, is not
in the least impaired by their inability as yet to explain
how they have come about. Neither should it be so im-
paired. In the pursuit of truth we should always advance
_fVorji_ihe- known, to the unknown, and jieyer.. oiye upi the_
substance of truths already ascertained, for the shadow of j
prnblp"^^/^f<^7^^j^^^"^ "^ In spite, then, of our"

inability to explain how il is we exist, or live, or feel, or
know either objects made present to our minds by our
senses or absolute universal truths, we need be none the
less certain as to the fact that we do exist, live, feel, and
know. Because we cannot tell how our intellect acts, is that
any reason for doubting that it does act, or for doubting

I any of its declarations when they are self-evident? ''[J^gjig-
rantia modi non tollit certitudinem facti J " We cannot,
indeed, tell how our intellect apprehends external realities
by means of sense-organs, but neither can we understancl
how our sensitive faculty feels the sensations they occasion
in and by those same sense-organs. Yet no one doubts
* See above, pp. 44, 45,

OBJECTIONS. 129

his sensations because he does not know how he is enabled
to obtain them ; neither should he doubt his perceptions
because he does not know how he is enabled to obtain
them. Nor can he seriously doubt them, as already-
shown,* without involving himself in complete scepticism,
which is the suicide of reason and the abandonment of the
/ pursuit of truth. It is we, who know objects, and not our
I ears or our eyes or our other organs of sensation ; and
V those organs and our sensitive faculty cannot be shown to
lead us into error (when acting normally and made use of
with ordinary care and attention) by any of the idealist
arguments here combated.

If we have succeeded in convincing the reader of this,
and if he considers that we have successfully disposed of
all the various idealist objections we have passed in review,
then a not unimportant aid has been thereby given to ;
those assertions which constitute realism, and the object
aimed at in this chapter has been attained. It only remains
now for us to consider certain forms of idealism which
have gained more or less popularity in our own time and
country, before passing on to review the leading charac-
teristics of that external world, a conviction of the real
and independent existence of which it is the object of this
section to maintain.

* See above, p. 126.

k

K

I.^O ON TRUTH.

At

CHAPTER XI.

^

IDEALISM OLD AND NEW.

Modern idealism is no improvement on that of Berkeley. Existence
does not depend on perception, but perception on existence.

The idealism of Berkeley — The idealism of Mill — 01 her popular
forms of idealism — Perccplion an accident of bodies — Objective
concepts — Materialistic idealism — Monism.

We have already admitted it to be conceivable * that
a supernatural being might, if sufficiently powerful and
skilful, and if there were no external world, so work upon
our sensitive faculties as to produce those very same effects
1 which external bodies actually produce upon us, and might
\ thus give rise, on our part, to what would then be a mis-

I taken belief in the independent existence of such bodies,
and in the various properties and qualities which we sup-

\ pose them to possess. This possibility cannot be denied ;
but any being so acting must possess not only unimagin-
able powers, but also a very high degree of intelligence.
Evidently no unknown cause acting blindly and without
understanding, could produce in us all those effects which
constitute our experience, and which so largely consist of
what we call " the conversation and rational conduct of our
fellow-men." We cannot conceive such effects to be due
to any mere force, unintelligent or blind, or in any way
comparable with " gravity," " heat," or " motion." Such
effects positively demand an intelligent cause as the only

,i_ Ipossible explanation of their existence. Bishop Berkeley
'taught that the supernatural being so acting on our sen-

* See abo\c, p. 76. -"""*^'"~

IDEALISM OLD AND NEW. I 3 I/^

J sitiye powers was God, and that the phenomena of njit.uxe^_^^.

"-'' were ideas thus communicated by Him to inferior intellj-^^
'V gen£es^ The science of Berkeley's day, however, was not
as is ours, and a belief in the evolution of our world and
its contents formed no part thereof But is it possible for
' us now to believe that a supernatural being, of inconceiv-
able goodness, called human intelligences into being, and
then caused them all to agree in possessing the conviction
that bodies exist by and in themselves, and independently
of a mind perceiving them, which bodies do not exist by and
in themselves, and independently of a mind perceiving them?
Can we really think that a God, as ages went on, caused
men to elaborate a vast, coherent, and verifiable system of
physical science, with its complex invariable laws, its suc-
cessful predictions and unceasing utility to human life,
while all the time that system was based upon conceptions
absolutely false ? If, then, we were forced to think that
our feelings were due to the direct action of any super-
natural being, that being could not be good, but must be
_a-jd£aler in fakebood. It would, however, be surely a much
simpler and more reasonable course to accept as true those
convictions which are common to ordinary men and to
scientific experts (convictions which constitute realism),
than to adopt the grotesque conceptjon. that we are always
and everywhere the victims of supernatural deceits, especi-
ally as the latter hypothesis is a purely gratuitous hypothesis,
and has not a leg to stand on as regards any positive
evidence of its truth.

The idealism of Berkeley has become obsolete. No tiu

public teacher or private philosopher of repute now openly 'fl/tniL

I advocates his system as he understood it. Nevertheless,

a modified form of idealism has obtained great popularity

'' in England through the teachings of that distinguished

Uogician, John Stuart^^Mj]]. He professed to believe m

a universe consisting of nothing but " sensations," and

what he called "permanent possibilities of sensation." Any

• ordinary person, of course, believes that the various objects

which constitute the world around him exist independently

of his feelings. He therefore believes that when he has

ceased for a time to perceive any objects — e.g. objects in

132/^ ON TRUTH.

a room he has quitted — such objects persist all the same in
his absence ; and when he perceives them again — as on
returning to the room he had quitted — he believes they are
the very same real external objects which have gone on
persisting during his absence just as they were before, save
as regards the accidental fact of their being perceived by
: him. Idealists like Berkeley, who affirm that the essence \ \
\ of an object is its being perceived, must of course affirm I i
i that objects, when ceasing to be perceived, cease to exist, « |
f and come newly back again into existence when they
i become once more perceived. Mill appears to have felt
the absurdity of this opinion ; and being, of course, aware,
like every one else, that beings do thus somehow continue
on during the intervals of their being perceived, he desired
distinctly to recognize that fact. As, however, he could
not, as an idealist, say they continued actually to exist
while unperceived, he attributed to them what he called
" a possibility " of existence, during the intervals when
they" were not actually perceived. An ordinary man re-
gards objects perceived — such as a horse, a sofa, the moon,
etc. — as independent external bodies affecting his senses
and power of perception, and regards such objects while
unperceived as being essentially the same, though tem-
porarily not affecting his senses and powers of perception.
Instead of this. Mill professed to regard the former (per-
ceived objects) as each consisting of a bundle of sensations
actually felt, and the latter (objects temporarily unper-
ceived) as bundles of sensations which, though not actually \
felt, yet might be felt — i.e. as " permanent possibilities ^'
of sensation." Can this modification of idealism be \
regarded as an improvement on the old Berkeleyanism .'' /
We not only think that it cannot justly be so regarded,
but that by this change Mill virtually abandoned idealism
altogether, while yet attempting verbally to continue to
adhere to it. He never explained what he meant by a
" possibility of sensation." Yet the word " possibility " is
absolutely unmeaning "unless it refers to something else
besides that which is conceived of as possibly becoming
actual. The very use of that word, implies a belief in some- ;
thing which makes the " possible " become " actual." The

ft'

y

IDEALISM OLD AND NEW. 1 33 4f^y

merely "possible," as long as it remains only " possible,"
can have no real existence, and is therefore nothing. But
" nothing " cannot make itself something — cannot make
itself actual. We have, then, according to Mill, " sensa-
tions actual " and " sensations possible." But he could not
mean that actual sensations themselves were capable of
bringing into existence other, as yet only possible, sensa-
tions. Neither could these other " possible " sensations
bring themselves into existence, since, by the very hypo-
thesis, they do not yet exist. Therefore, if his words are
not unmeaning (which cannot be supposed of so accom-
plished a writer), there must be, according to his teaching,
some third entity in addition to "sensations actual" and
" sensations possible." There must, in fact, be some en-
during entity which has the power of, and is the agent for,
transforming merely possible sensations into actual ones.
But an "enduring entity" is a substance, and this substance
is something which can exist unperceived, since nothing
can act which does not exist, and this enduring entity must
be supposed to act in making sensations felt which, when it
begins to act, are, by Mill's hypothesis, not yet felt. If,
however, we are to believe in enduring substances which
exist and act quite independently of being perceived, and
certainly (according to Mill) act when they are not per-
ceived, then it is difficult indeed to see why we should not j
adopt the ordinary realistic belief about bodies — which is \
just that. In__pilain--lan-guage^ Mill's " permanent possibili- ' ff^
ties of. sensation " are, in fact, nothing more than so many _^ '
real ^substances capable of exciting sensations, decorated J^
with a new, misleading, and really contradictory name. |
lie really believed, just as we do, in feelings and in a 1
number of enduring bodies which are capable of modifying
our feelings, and which can undergo changes, act as causes,
and exist without being perceived. In other words. Mill's
system virtually abandons idealism while verbally adhering
to it.

Another view, which has obtained a certain popularity, o^/ier
professes to combat idealism, and to support what it de-/or„iso/
nominates "transfigured realism;" and yet it ought to be "
reckoned as one form of that system which it professes to

134

ON TRUTH.

oppose, for all its fundamental principles are those of ideal-
ism, and its conclusions only differ from those of ordinary-
idealists in being still more unreasonable. This system!
contends that " all we are conscious of as properties oft
matter, even down to weight and resistance, are but sub-*
jective affections produced by an unknown and unknowable
objective agency, besides the existence of which we can
know nothing but states of consciousness. Even such
words as ' truth ' and ' fact ' are but names for certain
states of consciousness, and although there is a definite
relation between every change in consciousness and some
energy of the unknowable, yet no relation in consciousness
can resemble, or be in any way akin to its source be-
yond consciousness." Such " realism " as this, may well be
called "transfigured." By it, quite as much as by idealism
pure and ^simple, the world, as we know it, disappears
even from our thoughts. Not merely sounds and sights,
but the whole universe, including our own material frame,
appears dissolved by it, leaving us vaguely floating in an
unimaginable abyss ofunlaiowable possibilities. To oppose
idealism and then to offer us such realism as this, is like
inviting hungry men to a feast, discoursing to them about
meats and sauces, digestion and nutrition, and then taking
them to a room furnished with nothing but diagrams of
the chemical formulse of different kinds of food !

But, in the pursuit of truth, we need not linger over the
consideration of a system which denies that truth is any-
thing more than a state of feeling, or that we can know
absolute truth, since any system of the kind, inasmuch as
it thereby denies the principle of contradiction,* must
result in absolute scepticism, which, as we have seen, is
folly. Any one who propounds such a system may be
compared with a man seated on the branch of a tree, sawing
it across between himself and the tree's trunk. The success
of his efforts can but accomplish his own downfall...

But far more common and popular is a third view which
is singularly inconsistent with itself. Professing to know
nothing but sensations and faint revivals of sensations, those
who adopt this third view yet believe — as a sort of faith —

* See above, y>- 39-

IDEALISM OLD AND NEW. I 35

in the existence of an independent material world, unlike /
our sensations, yet the cause of them. The men of this \^ff
school do really believe in " material objects " and " physical / ^
states," as realities independent of their minds and of every |^-
one else's ; but on their system of knowledge they can (sincef
they say they can know nothing but states of conscious-!
ness) only get this belief of theirs by an act of blind andll
unreasoning credulity. Their idealism is a mere piece of v
JntelieGtual thimble-rigging, a game by which the unwary
onlooker is only too liable to be cheated out of his most
valuable mental possession — his rational certainty. Men
oTlTiis school sometimes, as did the late Mr. G. H. Lewes,
represent every feeling or perception we have, as some-
thing unlike both what is external and what is internal, i
They regard it as a tertium quid resulting from the com- \
bined activity andniiteraction of both the subject and
object, but resembling neither, just as water resembles
neither the oxygen nor the hydrogen from the combina-

(tion of both of which it results. But, in fact, our intel-
lect has the power of subtracting its own subjective
elements from the result. Let the perception be conceded
to be made up oi x -\- y \ x being the ego, or self, and y
the object. The mind has the power of supplying its own
—x^ and so we get (through the imagination of the mind
and the object) x -{- y — x, or y pure and simple. The
reader can easily convince himself that he really has this
power. Let him consider how by looking at, touching, and
handling two apples, he can obtain the assurance that they
are really two ; that as to this fact of number, his intellect
guards him from self-deception occasioned by the activity
of his own being. Let him further consider how, after
having perceived them, he is absolutely certain he has done
so, since he cannot believe he has at the same time both
" perceived them " and " not perceived them " without
violating the principle of contradiction, and so falling
into utter scepticism and absurdity. Therefore, external
objects and the mind itself, do not by their combined
activity, produce a perception divergent from objective
truth, and therefore the mind itself must either, as before
said, have the power of subtracting from the resulting per-

136 ON TRUTH.

ception every subjective element of its own which might
mislead, or else must be what may by analogy be called
perfectly transparent, transmitting to us a knowledge of
facts and principles as they really and objectively exist.
Grounding all our assertions upon the positive dicta of our
intellect, we may affirm that we are conscious that in know-
ing things, we are enabled to really know the things them-
selves and not a mere amalgam made up of a mixture of
things with ourselves, and neither really like us nor the
world about us.
erception With rcspcct to the contention of idealists that the

'bodies" essence of all " existence " is " being perceived," it may be I /^
contended that nothing which is perceived can exist in
absolutely the same condition when unperceived as it does
when perceived ; for in the former case it is " a thing per-
ceived," and in the latter case it is " a thing unperceived."
It may also be said, since every existence we know of
must be " an existence known by us," the existence of
anything unknown to us cannot be quite the same as that
of anything known to us. This contention must, of course,
be allowed, but it is utterly trivial. Of course, things
unknown cannot be known, while they exist as unknown
objects, and, of course, a thing perceived by me does not
jexist in a state of " being perceived by me" when I do
'not perceive it. But my perceiving or not perceiving it
is a mere accident of its existence, which existence con-
tinues^ on essentially the same, whether perceived ojr.jiAt,..
I The impressions, sensations, and ideas derived from things,
'do not, of course, exist independently of the mind which
has them, but the things which excite the sensations can
and do exist externally to, and independently of the mind,
as unthinking substances — things in themselves. The mere
accident of "being perceived" is one which may even be
absent indefinitely. Who has perceived, or will perceive,
the mountains on the other side of the moon ? Who per-
ceived for untold ages the many fossil remains which have
only of late years been disentombed ? Does want of being
perceived, impair the real existence of the millions of fossils \
yet undiscovered ? '

^tncepu. But if it is truc that there is (as here urged, and as all

IDEALISM OLD AND NEW. I 37

men but idealists believe) a real external world of varied
substances which exist independently of the mind, it is
evident that a relation of conformity exists between that
external world and our own minds. It is evident that our
own reason participates in a reason which must be admitted
to exist, in some sense, in the world around us. That two
and two make four ; that the whole is greater than its part ;
that two parallel lines cannot enclose a space ; that nothing
can at the same time both be and not be ; and that if all
members of any class of existences have a certain quality,
then anything which can be shown to belong to that class
must also have that quality, — all these are truths, not only
for our own minds, but for the objects about us also. This
we can clearly see when we apprehend any such truths
as, for example, that "two sides of a triangle are greater
than the third," etc., we also apprehend that the cause of
such truths does not lie in our understanding, but in
external nature. As these truths exist in "our mind," or
subjectively, they are so many " conceptions," or " con-
cepts" of that mind; but they manifestly exist also as
so many real relations between real things — that is, they
also exist objectively. These^ external real jcciaJJons, thus
perceived, may be called " objective concepts " — a term
which forcibly expresses their correspondence with our_
££Ecep.t-ions, or "subjective concepts." Correspondences
of the kind are implied in every assertion we make about
external objects. Thus, if we say, " A negro is black," we
affirm not only the existence of a correspondence and con-
formity between our subjective conceptions of "a negro"
and " blackness," and the objective realities — the real negro
and his dark colour — but also a correspondence between
our subjective judgment in the matter, and the objective
co-existence of the negro and the quality we term " black."
" Objective concepts," then, are those really exMing-th ings„
and conditions in the external world, to which our corre-
sponding "subjective concepts" answen Thc\' are that real

^./existence or condition in any object, which corresponds to
;an abstract idea. If there were not objective concepts
I thus corresponding with our subjective concepts, not only
jail physical science, but all reasoning and intellectual inter-

laterial-

itic

iealism.

9

ON TRUTH.

course between men must come to an end. Without them
we could not converse together intelligibly, or convey to
each other any information whatever. There are, therefore,
many relations in external nature which our intellect has
the power of directly apprehending (on the recurrence of
certain sense-impressions) as true — that is, as alike existing
in the mind and in external reality. These relations do
not merely exist in our subjective impressions, or merely
in the things which produce those impressions, i.e.
objectively, but in both simultaneously. They exist in our
perceived impressions as forming part of a universe in
which such necessary relations reign. Thus, the reason of
the individual may be seen to have a participation in that
universal reason which finds mute expression in the
irrational universe, and express recognition in the human
mind.

That "extremes jneet," is a familiar saying, and some
of the modifications of idealism constitute a striking illus-
^tration of its truth. That all existence is but a modifica-
ftion pf,iaind^is-±he.prQfJession-£»f orthodox idealism. That
|mind_is but a passing, temporary product of what we know
as matter, is the teaching of what is known as " materialism,"
and "would seem to be the direct contrary of idealism.^ Yet
a_jDractical_ijiatexialisni .is- often the- outcome and result
of a professed idealism. A profession of absolute mate-
trialism is rare with us now, but that popular form of
idealism last noticed* is, in fact, more to be reckoned as a
singularly illogical form of materialism, based upon the
persuasion (rather implied than avowed) that our idea of
material substance is more satisfactory and trustworthy
than any idea we can have of an immaterial substance
underlying and supporting our successive states of feeling.

Our certainty, however, as to the existence of our
substantial and enduring self, is, as we have seen,t funda-
mental and self-evident. Whatever may be said as to the
existence of the body — and its independent existence is
denied by idealists — the existence of the mind, it is abso-
lutely impossible logically to doubt ; for the very act of
consciously denying it implicitly affirms both its existence
* See above, pp. 134, 135. t See above, pp. 17-28.

»J-

IDEALISM OLD AND NEW. 1 39

and our knowledge of its existence. We cannot say,
" The mind does not exist," without knowing that we
affirm and understand something, and whatever affirms
and understands, must at least exist ; while the only intelli-
gent existence we directly and immediately know, is our
own — our own mind. It is possible, without self-contra-
diction, to deny that there is an unintelligent, material
substance — the body — co-existing with that which thinks
and understands ; but manifestly we cannot, without the
utmost absurdity, think that our own being does not think.
All, then, that any denial of the mind's existence can really
mean, is a denial that there is any fundamental distinction/
between mind and matter. This latter denial is equivalentp/^«/.v
to an assertion that mind and matter are but two modes,| ^
forms, or modifications of something else which is different^ «//
from both, and more fundamental. This latter assertion MV
characterizes that way of regarding the universe which isj ^
known as " i^onisiXL!l--.Acc£iDiLiig-to this^system, '.'.thought "
and "extension" are two attributes of one eternal sub
Ttance which is^cUfferent^from , JDoth. This strange con
"ceptiorTconflicts with the direct teaching of our intimate
experience, which tells us that in our own being we may
be aware both of that which thinks and gives us no sign of
" extension " — the intellect — and that which does not think,
but which is extended — such as various parts of our body —
while we have no particle of evidence that there is anything
in our being which is neither mind nor body, but which under-
lies both. Certainly a power of thinking is no attribute of
our hands or feet, or of many other portions of our frame.
We know also, if the independent existence of the external
world be admitted, that we have on all sides of us a multi-
tude of things — the air, the clouds, the water, and the soil
— which do not in any sense think. Any one who affirms
that in all this we are mistaken, and that these apparently
unintelligent bodies have really some form of intelligence
which escapes our ken, are at least bound to bring for-
ward some very convincing evidence of the fact asserted.
No such evidence, however, has been brought forward.
To deny the distinction between what is intelligent and
what is not intelligent is to deny a fact, the truth of which

fi

140 ON TRUTH.

our experience continually assures us of ; while to deny it, |
and at the same time to affirm that the only thing which
really exists is something which is neither the one nor the
other, is at the same time to deny what seems to us to be
the plainest truth, and to affirm gratuitously a paradox
which has no shadow of evidence in its favour. The theory
of monism, however, will have to be further considered
under the head of pantheism.* Yet__ anpthex way -jof

/^.^ .reconciling idealism and materialism has been proposed^
{According to this last mode, mind, in some rudimentary

/Oi form, is everywhere diffi.ised through the universe, each
j particle of matter possessing its share of a hypotheti-
cal substance, which has been called " mind-stuff." Such
I a belief, however, can be entertained only by those who
for some reason desire to entertain it, or who neglect to
note the differences between the objects they perceive,
attending only to resemblances, or rather to the analogies, v
which they may happen to exhibit. We cannot, of course,
prove that a table is not intelligent, any more than we can
prove any other negative. But the common sense of man-
kind clearly apprehends that a table is not intelligent, and
if a calculating machine be called " intelligent," it can only
be so because it gives evidence of the intelligence which
has been exercised in its construction. Common sense,
however, judges that so to speak is to misuse words, and
pervert their true meaning. As, however, we are here
somewhat anticipating what has to be more fully stated
in our twenty-sixth chapter, we desire to say no more than
seems to us necessary in order briefly to bring to the notice
of readers certain different modifications of idealism to
which we think their attention ought to be called.

Such, then, is idealism in its oldest form and in some
of its more recent popular manifestations in this country.
We claim to have shown that it [is not consistent with
reason on two accounts: (i) it contradicts that conception

, of the universe which the advance of science makes more

y\ and more convincing and secure ; and (2) it asserts that
we have not that direct knowledge of the world about us
\ Avhich our own minds assure us we certainly have.

* See below, chapter xxvi.

-^

IDEALISM OLD AND NEW. I41

! Reviewing our progress thus far, we may, it seems,

afifirm — if the reasons here urged are v^aHd — that by build-
ing upon the direct declarations of consciousness as a
foundation, we can be certain that we really know an
external world, and many qualities of independently ex-
isting things, and not merely our own feelings, or a mere
amalgam made up from ourselves and from external bodies.
In this way the teachings of science can be seen to har-
monize absolutely with the dictates of reason, while on the
idealist hypothesis they can only be accepted through an
act of blind, unreasoning credulity.

According to the arguments hitherto advanced, we may

repose securely in our spontaneous trust in the truthfulness

of our faculties, when matured and employed with attention

and care in the quest of real and objective truth. We may

be absolutely certain that an external world really exists

independently of us, and that its various parts really

possess those very powers and properties which our senses

and our reason combine to assure us such objects do in

fact possess. The proof of realism gives validity * to

I human testimony and the dictates of common sense, and

I supplies us with the means of apprehending a countless

\ multitude of clearly evident facts of the greatest use to us

1 in the investigation of our own nature and of the world

I about us, to which we may now proceed successively to

I address ourselves^

* See above, p. 65.

SECTION III.

MAN.

CHAPTER

XIX. Mankind

PAGE

XII. Structure of the Body ... ... j^c

XIII. The Activities of the Body ... 154

XIV. Our Lower Mental Powers ... ... 178

XV. Our Higher Mental Powers ... 203

XVI. Language ... ... ... 224

XVII. Perceptions of Truth, Goodness, and

Beauty ... ... ... ... 237

XVin. The Will ... ... ... ... 262

276

I

us )

CHAPTER XII.

STRUCTURE OF TflE BODY.

Some study of the structure and activities of the body — which is an
organism— is necessary for a full comprehension of our mental
powers. Its structure must be considered first, and especially
that of the nervous system, which, like all the other bodily
systems, is composed of organs, tissues, and cells. Our body
exhibits certain rudimentary structures and various noteworthy
conditions as to symmetry, also different orders of resemblance
and contrast between its various parts.

A knoivledge of the body necessary to a full kjwiuledge of the mind—
Its structure to be studied before its functions — Systems, organs,
tissues, and cells — Organs of sense — The nervous axis — Rudimen-
tary structures — Symmetrical relations and Jiomologies.

Having, in the last section, justified our natural confidence
in the testimony of the senses and understanding about
the external world, we may now securely proceed to the
investigation of our own nature and the world about us,
commencing with the former.

The object of this work being an inquiry after truth, it a kno-.u-
must, of course, always be more or less directly concerned tLbody

-1-1 1 1 • le 1)) • • necessary

with human thought, smce truth consists in an accurate toa/uii
correspondence between thought and things external* In o/ the mind.
the present section it is proposed to apply ourselves
especially and directly to the examination of thought and
of all human mental activity. But " thought," as we know
it, is only carried on by the help of a living body and
depends for its continuance on that body's life, and therefore
on the due performance of those bodily activities without

* See below, chap, xvii., "Objectivity of Truth."

L

146 ON TRUTH.

which life cannot be maintained. To have anything like
a full comprehension of our powers of thinking, then, we
should be acquainted not only with the inferior forms of
our mental activity, but also with those bodily activities
which are thus indispensable for their performance. But
it is impossible to understand how any structure or me-
chanism acts, unless we also know something of the order and
arrangement of its parts. Therefore, we cannot adequately
understand the human mind, unless we are somewhat
acquainted with the structure of the human body, and with
the different kinds of activity it displays. The human
body is obviously a complex structure, consisting of
different parts, which act in different ways and reciprocally
minister to one another. Thus, for example, the actions
of the organs of sense, and of the limbs, serve to convey
food into the interior of the body, where it is converted by
the digestive organs into nutriment, which is distributed
throughout our frame by an elaborate system of canals, or
" vessels," and by this means those vessels themselves, as
well as the digestive organs, limbs, and organs of sense,
are all nourished and maintained in due working order.
Thus the body is a complex whole, whereof the various
'%\ parts are reciprocally ends and means, and such a body is
called an ^^ organism P

Accordingly, our body requires to be considered, for
our present purpose, from two points of view, and its study
needs to be followed up along two different lines of inquiry.
One of these refers to its structure, and the other to the
actions which it performs — that is, its " functions." As
before said, a knowledge of structures must precede a
knowledge of functions ; and, accordingly, this chapter will
be devoted to a brief statement of those main facts re-
specting man's bodily organization which seem most
needful for the comprehension of such of its functions as
we are concerned with.

Nothing is, of course, more familiar to us than the
general external form of the human body. The leading
facts as to its internal structure arc also matters of com-
mon knowledge. Thus it is almost superfluous to say
that beneath the skin lies the " flesh " of the body, which

STRUCTURE OF THE BODY. 14^

more or less completely wraps round the bones of the
head and trunk — that is, the skull, backbone, and ribs —
and those of the limbs. Within the trunk is a cavity,
wherein lie a variety of parts, known as the heart, lungs,
kidneys, stomach, intestine, liver, etc. Within the skull \
and backbone is enclosed a mass of white substance — the 1
brain and spinal marrow. Delicate threads of similar sub- 1
stance (nerves) and tubes of various sizes (vessels) traverse//
the body in all directions.

Each of the considerable parts of the body, such, e.(^., as systems

'■ "^ ' <D ■' organs,

the heart, stomach, lungs, eyes, ears, etc., is termed an "organ," tissues

' ) t> ) y ) ' ' ^. aitd cells.

and different organs are arranged together in groups, into
♦ "sets" or "systems" of organs. Thus there is the "ali-
mentary system " made up of mouth, oesopha^s_^or gullet),
stomach, intestinal tube — together forming the alimentary
canal — with the liver and pancreas thereto annexed. The
circulating system, again, consists of the heart and all the
various vessels directly or indirectly connected with it.
But just as "systems" are made up of "organs," so each
" organ " is made up of several different substances, vari-
ously blended, and differing in their minute, microscopic,
characters. Eacli such distinct substance is called a I
" tissue." Thus "fat " is "adipose tissue " ; " flesh " is V,
muscular " tissue " ; the outermost layer of the skin is /
made of " epithelial tissue," and its deeper layer of "con- |
nective tissue." Bone is " osseous tissue," and the brain J
and nerves are formed of " nervous tissue." Finally, eachf
tissue is either made up of certain very small structural
! elements, termed " cells," or of parts which have been
derived from and represent cells — a cell being a minute
particle of a soft substance called " protoplasm." These
' cells, or parts derived from cells, compose the ultimate
substance, or " parenchyma " of the body, so far as our
powers of observation at present extend ; but these by no
means enable us really to understand the absolutely ulti-
mate composition of our bodies. Chemistry enables us
to resolve the bodily tissues into certain inorganic sub-
stances, which are called " elements," because they have
not yet been shown to be of composite nature ; and " proto-
plasm " can always be reduced to four such elements,

148 ON TRUTH.

namely, oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and carbon. A very
large part of the human frame is made up of water, the
brain containing about seventy per cent, of that fluid.

The component substances of the body are grouped in
two classes, according as they can or cannot be shown to 1
contain a gaseous element known as nitrogen. To the/
former, or nitrogenous group of substances, belong our
flesh, our blood, nervous tissue, and most of the constituents
of our frame ; but fat is an example of a non-nitrogenous
substance. The body may first be reduced to what are
called its " proximate elements," such as albumen (the sub-
stance of the white of Qgg) and gelatine (the substance of
jelly), both nitrogenous. The body is ultimately reducible
to the before-mentioned elements, oxygen, hydrogen,
carbon, and the nitrogen, and to certain other elements
.which are present in much smaller quantity.*

The whole structure of the body is bounded externally
[by the skin, and is internally supported by that solid
framework of bones and cartilages known as the skeleton,
[ts parts are mostly capable of being moved one upon
mother ; and, to facilitate these motions, the contiguous
surfaces of such movable bones are so shaped as to form
what are known as "joints." The most important part
of the skeleton is the skull and backbone (or vertebral
column), which contains an elongated cavity continuous
with the cavity of the skull. From either side of the back-
bone the ribs proceed forward towards the breast-bone.
Each limb contains long bones, which support the arm or
the leg, the short bones of the wrist or the ankle, the five
bones of the palm of the hand or sole of the foot, and
the bones of the fingers or toes. The limb-bones are.
attached to the back and breastbones by two bony girdles.;
The arm-bone girdle is formed of the collar-bones and blade- j
bones. The girdle to which the thigh-bones are articulated
is more complete and solid, and is known as the pelvis.
The flesh which invests the skeleton consists of a multitude
of most delicate threads, called " muscular fibres," which

* If the whole body lie supposed to consist of lOO parts, there will be 72 of
oxygen; g'l hydrogen; I3'5 carbon; 2 '5 nitrogen; lime and phosphorus
a fraction above I, and other substances the remaining fraction.

STRUCTURE OF THE BODY. 1 49

are variously aggregated in masses to form " muscles " of
different shapes and sizes — muscles of the limbs, muscles
of the trunk, muscles of the head and jaws, etc. — which
are generally attached by one or by both ends to different
bones. Muscular fibres are present in large numbers in the
walls of the alimentary canal. The alimentary system has
, been already mentioned. The circulating system has also
, been briefly adverted to. It consists of a muscular, four-
chambered structure — the heart — which is the centre of
■ two sets of tubes progressively decreasing in diameter, and
•known as arteries and veins, which have muscular fibres in
their membranous walls. Minute vessels, termed capilla-
ries, connect the extremities of the arteries with the veins,
while another set of vessels, known as lyiTiphatics, proceed-
ing from all parts of the body, converge and unite with
two large veins. The arteries, veins, and heart are full of]
a fluid " tissue " — the blood — and the lymphatics of a fluid/
called l;^ph. These fluids contain a multitude of minute
bodies, termed " blood corpuscles," which may be white or
/ red. Only white corpuscles are contained in the lymph, but
j the immense majority of those in the blood are red, and its
I colour is due to them. The lungs are two very complexly
^formed air-bags, while a tube, known as the windpipe, and
which is connected above with the back of the mouth, bifur-
cates below, each bifurcation further dividing and sub-
dividing within the lung into which it enters. These
together constitute the respiratory system of organs. The
kidneys are two rounded masses of minute tubes, which
converge to open into a cavity, whence two very much larger
tubes — one to each kidney — pass down to the bladder,
and thence a single tube extends to an external aperture. I
Various parts of the body — such, e.g., as the back of the '|
i mouth, the middle passage of the nose, the windpipe, etc. — •
1 are lined with epitjialium. which is coated with very minute
\ hair-like processes, termed (for a reason which will here-
\ after appear) "yibratile dlia." The sexual, or generative
system, essentially consists, in the male, of very minute
tubes, containing what are called sperm-cells, and peculiar
filamentary portions of cells. In the female, it consists of
an apparently non-tubular parenchyma, containing certain

rgans of
nse.

:rvous
it's.

150 ON TJ^U 77/.

modified cells, termed " ova." The nervous system is the
assemblage of bodily organs which the most concerns us
here. It consists, in the first place, of the brain and spinal
marrow (or spinal cord), which together constitute what is ;
called the central part of the nervous system, or the ner- j
vous axis. Besides this, the nervous system consists of an i
immense multitude of cords and threads of nervous tissue '
— the " nerves " — which proceed out from the axis of the
nervous system to all parts of the body. Certain special
nerves proceed from the brain to the eye, the ear, the
nose, and the tongue, and are there distributed.

The eye essentially consists of a very delicate expan-
sion of nervous tissue, called the retina — which is directly
continuous with the brain by means of the optic nerve —
and which has in front of it three transparent media of
different densities enclosed within the skin of the eyeball,
which is transparent anteriorly. The organ of hearing, or
internal ear, is a complexly-shaped, delicate membranous
bag, called the " labyrinth," containing fluid, and floating
in another fluid enclosed within a dense bone of the skull.
The auditory nerve, passing outwards from the brain, dis-
tributes its ultimate ramifications on the walls of the
membranous bag. The nasal organ is composed of minute
branches of the nerves of smell (olfactory nerves), which
proceed, from a prolongation of the brain, outwards to the
moist membrane lining the uppermost part of the cavity of
the nostrils. The organ of taste consists of the tongue and
hinder portion of the palate. These parts are supplied
/with branches of two gustatory nerves from the brain,
1 named trigeminal and glosso-pharyngeal respectively. The
Vorgan of touch is the skin, including the very delicate
nerve fibres which are supplied to it from the nervous
axis.
y,c The spinal cord consists of two lateral halves, and nerves,

called spinal nerves, are given forth symmetrically in pairs
(one right and one left) from each lateral half of it. Each
spinal nerve of every pair, arises by two roots, one anterior
in position and the other posterior, and each root is made
up of a number of small bundles of nerve fibres. The
fibres from the hinder and from the anterior part of each

STRUCTURE OF THE BODY. 151

lateral half of the spinal cord, are mixed, and run together
in the nerves, but those from its anterior half go especially
to the muscles, and those from its posterior half to the
skin.

The brain, or the enlarged summit of the nervous axis,
consists mainly of two very unequal parts, termed respectively
the large brain, ox ccrebrwn, and the little brain, or cerebelhini.
The cerebrum is divided by a deep median groove into
two lateral halves, called the hemispheres of the brain, of
which they form the whole very much convoluted upper
surface. The cerebellum lies beneath their hindermost
parts. The spinal cord is continuous with the brain at
what is called the medulla, whence the axis mounts upwards
and diverges to form the hemispheres, having the cere-
bellum behind it. A minute longitudinal cavity traverses
the spinal cord, and is called the "central canal." It
expands within the brain into four continuous, complexly
formed cavities, termed " veiitricles." The greater number
of the nerves which proceed from the brain have their
origin in the medulla, and this is notably the case with i^''^^^-
those which go to the lungs, stomach, and heart. structure

From the anterior and posterior surfaces of the cerebral
part of the nervous axis project two small rounded bodies,
termed respectively the " pituitary body" and the "pineal
gland." They are examples of certain parts distinguished,
for reasons which will hereafter appear,* as " rudimentary
structures." Another rudimentary structure, formed in
connection with the intestine, is known as the vermiform
appendix ; and other such structures exist in connection
with the organs of generation.

We have described the body as consisting of different
systems of organs, composed of tissues and cells ; but by
this all that has been meant is that it can be more or less
readily divided into such parts. In reality, the body forms
one continuous whole, which assumes different appearances
and possesses different properties in different parts. Even J
the blood is directly continuous with the other constituents jf
of the body in all actively growing parts. Thus the /
body of each adult human being may be said to be one/

* See telow, chap. xxii. ]

152 ON TRUTH.

enormously large cell, the contents of which have become I
very complex and diversely conditioned. /

■y,n7m-iri- Jt {3 dcslrable to note the existence of certain sym-

11 relations ■'

"^ , . metrical relations and contrasts between different parts

ojHologies.

of our frame. Thus there is an obvious contrast between
the dorsal (or posterior) and the ventral (or anterior) aspects
of the body, and this contrast extends along each limb to
the ends of the fingers and toes respectively.

Again, there is a resemblance, 'or homology (and at the
same time a contrast), between the right and left sides,
which correspond with tolerable exactitude one to the
other. This kind of harmony is termed bilateral symmetry,
or homology. Though obvious externally, it does not
prevail in all the internal organs (or viscera), some of
which are more or less unsymmetrically disposed.
\ There is a third order of resemblance, or correspondence,
namely, that which exists between parts placed in serial
succession. We may find an example of this in the cor-
respondence which exists between the parts of the upper
limbs and those of the lower extremities, which may be
said to succeed the former inferiorly. Thus there is 2l serial
symmetry, or hornology, of the upper arm with the thigh,
of the elbow with the knee, of the lower part of the arm
with the leg, of the wrist with the ankle, of the palm
of the hand with the sole of the foot, and of the fingers
with the toes — the thumb agreeing with the great toe in
having only two bones within it, while each of the fingers
and other toes has three. This serial symmetry which is
thus visible externally, becomes much more evident when
the interior of the body is examined. Thus we find that
the backbone is made up of a number of osseous pieces
which obviously resemble each other very closely, and so
bear a common name. Each such bone is called a "verte-
bra," on which account the backbone is often called the
vertebral column. The same is the case as regards the
" ribs," which also follow one another in " a series," and
thus have a serial resemblance, or " homology," as it is often
termed. Parts which possess a serial homology are often
distinguished as " serial homologues," or " hpmotypes."

The term "homology" refers only to structural relations //i

STRUCTURE OF THE BODY. 1 53

/ and resemblances as to relative position, and has nothing-

whatever to do with the use to which parts may or may
not be put.

There are certain very curious facts which point to some
deep and hidden cause of serial homology, of a more pro-
found nature than any similarity in the use to which serially
homologous parts may be applied. Thus certain diseases
will attack the palms and soles of one individual and the
backs of the hands and feet of another individual. Similar
deformities also are often to be found simultaneously in
the thumbs and great toes of the same persons, or between
their little fingers and little toes. These curious conditions,
and serial homology as it exists in us, will be further illus-
trated when we come to consider the structure of the lower
animals,* where also we shall find that some of them have
the body built up symmetrically according to a third and
quite different kind f of symmetry.

* See below, chap, xxi., " Arthropoda."
t See below, chap, xxi., " Ccclentera."

154 ON TRUTH.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY.

The functions of the body vary with its structure, a classification of
"functions" corresponding with a classification of its parts.
There is a close analogy between the main functions of whole
systems of organs and the vital powers possessed by the minute
portions of protoplasm which build them up.

Muscular activity— Co-orditiated motions — Non-Jiiuscular motility —
The aliinetitary functiott — Activities of the circulating system —
The respiratory function — -The /u?iction of secretion — The genera-
tive function— Functions of the nervous system — Repair ofitijuries
— DevelopDient — Heredity and variation — Habit — Instinctive
actions — Death atid life.

Having briefly reviewed those facts which most concern
us here, respecting man's bodily structure, we have next to
consider the actions, or functions, of the body and of its
various parts. The body is, as we have seen, made up of
" systems " of parts, each system consisting of certain
aggregated " organs," each organ being made up of different
"tissues," and each tissue being composed of "cells," or
parts representing cells. Obviously, therefore, we may
expect to find activities of corresponding orders — namely,
of cells, of tissues, of organs, and of systems, in addition to
such activities as belong to the entire living body, regarded
as one whole. But none of the functions of the body can
be performed except under certain physical conditions.
There must be a sufficient, but not an excessive, degree of
heat, a certain amount of moisture, and a certain supply
of gaseous material. The existence of certain amounts of
such forces and conditions are obviously necessary for life.

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY. 155

We may bemn our examination of the functions of bodily Musadar

•' o activity.

life by considering bodily activity /rt;r excellence— xViOVQw^^rW.?,
of the limbs and other parts, and of the body as a whole.
Walking, running, jumping, and the various movements of
the larger and smaller parts of our frame, are all effected
by the action of muscles of different kinds, shapes, and
sizes. The muscles act by " contracting," and their con- ^
traction is due to a power which the fibres that compose |
them severally possess of simultaneously decreasing in/
length and increasing in diameter, on the occurrence of
certain conditions and excitations. This power possessed,
by muscular tissue is a special form of ir/j^ability, which iS;;
called "contractility." By" their contractTons, muscles^
move the'^ones'^'6 which they are attached,* causing
them to act like levers of different orders, and so to pro-
duce conspicuous bodily movements, such as those of our
limbs, our head, our lower jaw, etc. The contracted state
of any muscle can only endure for a limited time, and
cannot be repeated without an interval of rest, which must
be greater according to the exhaustion induced by fre-
/ quently repeated contractions. There, is one muscle,^
IhoweYer,. which acts throughout the whole life, its con- >^
jTractjons^bemg .continually reiterated— a short interval of ^W^
Trest taking place after each contraction. X^is muscle is :r
X-t^^ e" heart, , an d it is an example of muscles which contract
1 automatically without ©ur kriawiedge and independently
rof__(2jjir__.a3^ill. Such activities are to be carefully dis-
tinguished as " involuntary" activities, from our " voluntary
movements. There are some motions, such as those of
respiration, which ordinarily take place independently of
our will, but which can be performed voluntarily, and for
a time be voluntarily suspended. Soon, however, the
power of voluntarily restraining them ceases, and they take
place in spite of all our efforts to the contrary.

The agent which induces muscular contraction is called 1
a " stimulus," and there are various kinds of stinuili. Thus, l
there may be a direct stimulus, such as the application to
the muscular fibres of a sharp-pointed body, or of an acid,
or some acrid substance, or of sudden heat or cold, or
* See above, p. 149.

Co-ordi-

jiatcd

^notions.

156 ON TRUTH.

a shock of electricity. There may also be an indirect
stimulus, i.e. when the excitation is supplied not directly
to the muscular tissue of a muscle, but to the nerves which
are distributed to it ; or there may be a mental stimulus
due to emotional excitement, or to the influence of an act
of our will. It is a noteworthy fact that stimuli, physically
equal, have a more powerful effect when acting on a muscle
through a nerve, than when acting directly on the muscle
itself.

A certain moderate, involuntary contraction of the
muscles (called their " tonicity ") is habitual. Were it not
for this we could not stand w-ithout a great voluntary effort,
on account of the flexibility of our joints. We maintain
our upright posture as easily as we do, because the muscles
placed on opposite sides of our body and legs are contracted
to this normal degree. They thus antagonize each other,
and so prevent the joints from giving way and allowing
the body to fall to the ground, as it infallibly does when
their action is suddenly arrested — as by a bullet through
the heart. During waking life, and in sleep-walking,
changes of posture which tend to cause the centre of
gravity to fall beyond the basis of support, are instinctively
followed by compensating motions which have the effect
of retaining it within such basis. Thus, if the left leg be
extended outwards, the body instinctively and simul-
taneously leans over to the right. Motions begun with
a voluntary effort may be subsequently carried on auto-
matically, as we constantly find when we set out for a walk.
Such motions may be carried on much better automatically
than with attention ; as is easily seen if we begin to con-
sider what our movements should be while we are running
up stairs. Attention impedes the rapidity and accuracy \
of such movements.

Thus not only do muscular motions take place without
our adverting to them (as well as in response to a direct
act of our^will), but they take place in appropriate groups
of co-ordinated movements and groups of groups of such
movements, which not only we do not will, but which we
do not even know. How wonderful, when we carefully
consider it, is the trivial act of a lad throwing a stone at

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY. I 57

a mark ! How complex must be the co-ordinated move-
ments between different parts of the body in order to
produce even such a result ! The lad's mind has little to
do with it beyond the one impulse to hit the mark. He
knows nothing of anatomy, but simply sets going the
wonderful mechanism of his body, and this works out the
desired effect for him, just as if it were only an elaborate
machine. In the first place, the various movable parts of
his eyes must be so adjusted that he may see the mark
distinctly. Then his body must be held in a proper
position, the stone be grasped with fit strength (that is,
certain muscles must be contracted to a given amount),
the arm must be thrown back to the due extent, and its
muscles contracted, in co-ordination with the movements
of the eyes, and with just that degree of vigour which,
as his fingers are relaxed, will carry the stone as desired.
Thus movements may be synthesized without our will and
without our knowledge — so as to result in the production
of one complex general action.

Various other motions may also take place uncon-
sciously. The movements of the heart and those of
respiration have been already adverted to, but, besides
these, there are continual movements in the walls of the
stomach and intestine, which are constantly renewed during
life, and movements of contraction and relaxation in the
walls of the blood-vessels — movements which serve to
regulate the amount of the life-giving stream which differ-
ent conditions induce them to transmit to different parts
of the body.

But besides these movements of muscular tissue, the -v>'«-w«i-

cittar

minute protoplasmic constituents of the body have also ""■■•tiiiiy-
a certain power of motion. Thus the white corpuscles of
the blood have a power not only of simple expansion and
contraction, but also of protruding and withdrawing por-
tions of their substance, and thus changing their shape in
the most various ways. This kind of motion is termed
" amoebiform," because it is quite like the motions which
certain microscopic organisms, termed AinccbcB* perform.
The cilia, also, which have been already spoken off in
* Sec below, chap. xxi. t See above, p. 149.

158

ON TRUTH.

reference to the air passages of the body, have a peculiar

■J'hc all-
Ill cut a >y
function.

power of motion — whence they get their name of " vibratile I
ciHa." They perform repeated lashing movements, each
cilium bending itself with great rapidity, and then becoming
more slowly straightened. All the adjacent cilia move in
the same direction, thus together producing a wave-like
motion similar to that exhibited by a field of corn under
a strong wind. The result of these constantly repeated
movements is to propel small particles along the ciliated
surface of the body.*
\ If a minute portion (a cell) of £iJialexL..9£ithelium be
detached, so as to float freely in some suitable fluid, then
the effect of the lashings of its cilia is to move above the
cell itself as by a sort of locomotion, like that of some very
lowly animals and plants. No muscular tissue or nerve
exists in any of these minute motile particles, and the
cause of the motions is as yet quite unexplained and
mysterious, like that of the contractile power of muscular
tissue.

The activities of the organs which together constitute
the alimentary system, combine to effect the nutrition of
the body and siiicli""growth of its various parts as may be
needed to compensate the wear and tear of adult life, or,
in the ioiniature individual, to minister to that development
by which the human frame is built up. The process of
nutrition effected by food is, in early life, greatly in excess
of waste, and hence the body is said to "grow," and visibly
increases in size with rapidity. Growth, however, takes
place during the whole of life, though, at maturity, an
equilibrium is established between growth and waste, so
that the body ceases visibly to grow. With the advance
of age, the balance at first existing is reversed, and waste
becomes more and more in excess. The growth of the
whole body takes place by the growth of its component
tissues, and the growth of each tissue is brought about
by the multiplication of the cell-elements which compose
it. These, through nutrition, augment in size, and then
subdivide themselves ; and it is by this reproduction of

* This resembles the action of certain lowly animals known as Flagellata,
see below, chap. xxi.

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY. 159

cell-elements that the tissues grow. The taking into our

frame of the materials necessary for such reparative and

nutritive growth, is called alivientation, and is finally effected 1

by the reception of new elements into the very ultimate j

substance, or parenchyma, of the body. This final process

of reception itself is termed assimilation, and consists in

I the transformation of what is immediately external to the

; most intimate substance, or parenchyma, of the body into

the parenchyma itself — the change of the food we eat into

; our own flesh and blood. As to this process, science, as

yet, can only say that it is performed, and enumerate the
parts and processes which aid its performance. How it ,
is performed, after all the preliminary actions are gone |
through, is at present an entirely unsolved problem. ^

Nevertheless, certain physical conditions help us to

understand the processes which serve and lead up to the

final act of assimilation. Assimilation is always effected

from a fluid medium derived from the food ; but in order

that the food should be able to supply the body with such

a medium, it must, sooner or later after its reception,

undergo a certain process of preparation. Thus the whole

process of nourishing the body by food — the process of

alimentation — is made up of four subordinate processes :

■ (i) the reception of the food ; (2) its preparation by

I mechanical division and solution ; (3) the action upon it

I of the digestive juices * — such as the saliva, gastric juice,

f and the fluids formed by the intestine, liver, and pancreas •

and (4) its assimilation.

A supply of nutriment is, however, by no means all that •!
is requisite to maintain life. It is also necessary that a cer- I
tain temperature should be kept up by a constant process \
of oxygenation.! of the body's substance, and so we need \
food for the production of heat as well as for nutrition. |

But nutrition could not be effected were not fresh
nutritive material conveyed all over the body to replace
wear and tear ; and it is so conveyed by the circulating
* These juices so act on the food as to change many of its component
parts from an insoluble to an easily soluble state. To change them, that is,
from " colloids " into " crystalloids." See below, chap. xx. p. 304.

t " Oxygenation " is union with oxygen, as when iron ' ' rusts," and chemical
action is a cause of warmth (see below, chap. xx.).

^Vwy/jV..

1 60 ON TRUTH.

system — the system of blood-vessels or vascular canals.
Yet, however copious and persistent may be this supply of
nutriment, nutrition could not take place had not the
various substances of the body the power to extract nutri-
tive material from the blood and build it up, each into
its own kind of substance — whether it be nervous tissue,
muscular tissue, epithelial tissue, or what not. These
various substances do not, of course, exist as such in the
blood ; it is the different tissues which have the power of
changing some of the nutriment contained within it into
their own tissue. Thus the living particles which form the
ultimate substance of the body, exercise a certain power of
choice with respect to the contents of the fluids which come
in contact with them. Such particles are not passive
bodies, they are active living agents. But, in fact, it is
not the blood alone which is in all cases the direct agent
of nutrition, since the blood has the power of replenishing
itself and repairing its own losses, out of the fluids obtained
from the food. Xlie -intimate way in which assimilation
^z/^. takes place is called intussusception, to distinguish it from
any growth whTcl^may taTce place by mere external addi-
tion— as when a crystal grows,* while suspended in a
suitable medium, by the deposition of fresh matter on its
surface. Thus the ultimate protoplasmic elements of the
body have a power of converting other adjacent substances
into material like themselves — into their own substance.
Inasmuch also as the heat of the body is produced and
maintained by the oxygenation of such ultimate elements,
they must, besides this, also possess a power of executing
chemical changes, and so evolving heat more gently and
continuously than in the combustion of inorganic bodies^
Activities 0/ The activities of the circulating system of parts,! con- \
iligTyst'em. sist in the conveyance of the nutritive fluid — the blood — ■
to and from every part of our frame. That it should be ,
so conveyed is a manifest necessity of life, for since the I
process of nutrition takes place in the very innermost sub- '
stance of the body, there must be channels by which every
part of the body may be supplied with its needed nutriment.
It also requires to be driven from space to space, that it

* See below, cliap. xx. p. 304. t See above, p. 149,

1^.

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY. j6i

may go wherever it is wanted ; and, to effect this, active
" organs of circulation " are needed, whereof the heart — the
great propeller— is the chief. The blood exudes from the
finest ultimate ramifications of the blood-vessels in order
to reach the parenchyma of the body, and to supply it
with its rich nutritive material for assimilation, repair of
waste, and growth.

But the blood, in and by the very act of nourishing the
various organs, must part with its nutritive material, and
this, therefore, requires to be replenished if life is to be
sustained. The needful gaseous matters are obtained, as
will shortly be pointed out, by respiration ; but the other
matters have to be gathered by the blood from the materials
prepared for it within the alimentary canal, whence they
pass into the blood channels by the intervention of the
lymphatic vessels, which, as before said,* ultimately open
into the large veins. The arteries are vessels which carry
the blood from the heart all over the body, whence it re-
turns b}' the veins to that central organ.

Besides the circulation of the blood throughout the body,
a minute internal circulation, or movement of parts of its
substance, must also take place within each protoplasmic
particle of the body, similar to that which takes place in
certain minute living organisms, whose whole bodies consist
each of a minute particle of protoplasm only^-

. Of all the functions of the body, that of respiration is The respi-
tha^most conspicuously necessary for the. maintenance oCflTcLn.
2i^i^.The life of each separate individual begins with an
act of inspiration, and with an act of expiration it ceases.
Let the function of respiration be interrupted for a very
short time, and death is the necessary result. In breath- i
ing, the air is taken down the windpipe into the lungs, /
and is thence again expelled much poorer in oxygen/
gas, but much richer in carbonic acid. It is this absorp-\
tion of oxygen by the body and discharge from it of V
carbonic acid instead — this interchange of gases between i
the living animal and the surrounding air — which con- I
stitutes "breathing," or respiration. But in carrying on /
this function we really perform two processes of respiration

• See above, p. 149.

M

l62

ON TRUTH.

The /unc-
tion of
secretion.

— one "internal," the other relatively "external." Such
is the case, because the oxygen received into the blood
does not remain there, but is carried by the circulation
to the remotest recesses of our body, to unite with its
innermost parenchyma. Similarly, the carbonic acid which
the blood sets free, does not originate in the blood, but
is given forth into the blood from all the ultimate particles
of the same parenchyma. Thence the blood gathers it,
and conveys it outwards for discharge in the lungs. The
blood thus both gives out and takes in oxygen and carbonic
acid at either end of its course to and fro between the
lungs and all parts of the body. It goes from all parts
of the body to the heart, and is thence propelled to the
lungs, where it gives out its excess of carbonic acid into
the air contained within them, and takes thence oxygen in
exchange. Int£iJi£^jrespiratio7i, therefore, is the absorption
of oxygen and elimination oFcarbonic acid by the ultimate
parenchyma of the body's substance. External respiration
is the absorption of oxygen and the elimination of carbonic
acid by the blood, on what is essentially the surface of the
body ; for the always moist lining of the lungs is but, as it
were, a very deep and complex inbending and infolding of
the body's external surface.

Thus we may here again note, as we before noted
with respect to other activities of the body, that the proto-
plasmic elements of the body have themselves a power of
respiration — of effecting that very gaseous interchange
just described.

But, closely connected with respiration and nutrition,
there is yet another bodily activity to be described, namely,
secz^iion. We have, in fact, already noted that the process
of respiration is in part a process of elimination and
removal from the body of a portion of the waste products
of its vital activities. This now requires more careful
consideration. Bodily life is carried on by a series of
compositions and decompositions, and, in order that assimi-
lation may take place, a process of disassimilation must
accompany it. With the addition of new and unused
material, there must go on a subtraction of old and effete
material. It has already been observed that the digestion

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY. 1 6

J

of our food is aided by juices, such as the sahva, gastric
juice, etc. Now, these juices do not exist as such in the \
blood, but are formed from it by a mysterious power |
which certain cells possess thus to build up new products. \
The exercise of this power is called " secretion," and it is a |
power analogous to that by which the various tissues are
enabled to add to their own substance from the life-stream
which bathes them, though their substance does not exist,
as siich, in that stream. Thus " assimilation " itself is a
sort of " secretion." Nevertheless, it cannot be said that
I* " secretion " is a sort of "assimilation." "Assimilation" is
a process of forming products and adding them to the
body; but "secretion" is a process of forming products
which are either to be got rid of, or else are destined to aid
in other life-processes. Thus secretion is a special function,
and as such has a special organ — a gland. Two most im-
portant glands of our body are the kidneys, which secrete
and remove from the blood certain effete and deleterious
nitrogenous substances, which they discharge and pass on
into the bladder. But we are also compelled to recognize
that a power of " secretion " is possessed by the ultimate
protoplasmic elements of the body, just as we have seen
them to possess other before described functions. For it
is they which ultimately do the actual work of " secretion."
Therefore such particles have the power of forming from
their own substance other substances of a different nature.
This power, possessed by particles of protoplasm, is espe-
cially conspicuous in the process of " development." * Thus
we see how close is the analogy between the main functions
of whole systems of organs, and the vital powers possessed
by the minute particles of protoplasm which go to build up
the body.

The generative function is a special modification and
form of " growth." Nutrition is a sort of self-generation ;
and this is especially striking in certain cases of bodily
repair after injury.f In ordinary growth there is, as we'
have seen, a sort of reproduction ; for it is by the repro-
duction, or multiplication, of the component cells of the
various tissues that their growth is effected. There is, then,

* See below, p. 171. t See below, p. 169.

The gene-
fa th>e
OtnctioH.

164

ON TRUTH.

nothing very wonderful in an organ forming cells which, |
instead of remaining part of the tissue which formed them, |
and so causing it to grow, become detached from it.
Nevertheless, though generation may be said to be a kind
of growth, yet it is a very special and peculiar kind of
growth. For it is effected, in us, by the formation of two
kinds of cell-elements, which have a reciprocal relation one
to the other, and each kind is in its separate way very
remarkable. The male or sperm cell, gives rise to the
before-mentioned actively locomotive filamentary particles,
whereof each one which attains the end of its being, merges
itself in a cell of the other kind. This second kind of
cell, thfi^male generative cell, or ovum, is one not only
capable of self-division and multiplication, but of growing
I up, after the merging process just mentioned, not into a
' single organ only, but into a perfect human being. Thus
is brought about (the requisite conditions being supplied)
nothing less than a cycle of changes — the cycle of life —
i.e. a series of changes returning to the point from which
that series set out. We have (i) the generative cell; (2)
its upgrowth into the form of a fully developed embryo ;
(3) the birth of an infant ; (4) childhood ; (5) adolescence ;
and (6) maturity, where we have the formation of the
generative cell once more. This cycle of changes, like
every other process of bodily life, needs for its due occur-
rence certain fixed conditions, such as a certain tempera-
ture, a due supply of oxygen, a sufficient amount of food,
the presence of a requisite degree of moisture, and, of
course, protection from directly destructive agencies,
animate or inanimate. The general features of this won-
derful kind of growth from the ovum, constitute what is
called the process of development, and its consideration,
with that of the process of repair after injury, will occupy
us at the end of this chapter.
Functions oA It will bc wcll licrc to consider the activities of the

the nervous I , t i_ • L^ t • • l- i

syshm. nervous system, and certam other activities more or less
analogous thereto, or connected therewith. It is by the
living agency of the nervous system that all the other
organic activities of our body are carried on. Without its
aid all nutrition, growth, circulation, respiration, secretion,

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY. 1 65

(generation, or muscular motion would be impossible for us.
But besides these organic activities — activities which,
muscular motion apart, we share, not only with animals,
but also with plants — -the nervous system also ministers
to, and is necessary for, sensation, and, therefore, for all our
cognition, since, as we have seen,* knowledge is impossible
for us except as following upon sensation. The nervous
system is thus an intermediary between us and the world
about us. It receives various influences from the latter
which give rise to corresponding sensations in us, and to
bodily movements, which react on the world about us.
But besides these actions, it also serves as an intermediary
without the intervention of sensation, since, when it is
acted upon by external influences, it may, and constantly
does, excite corresponding activities in our body without
giving rise to any feeling of which we are conscious.

Sensation is incapable of definition, since to be under-
stood it needs to be experienced ; and every man must know
what it is to have a feeling who knows anything whatever
— as " sensations " are with us the indispensable antece-
dents of ideas, and, therefore, of knowledge. All considera-
tion of sensation, as recognized by consciousness, must be
deferred till we come to speak of the faculties of the mind,
and to consider it subjectively. Here we may, however,
at once describe it as a special and altogether peculiar
vital organic activity, which accompanies certain actions of
the nervous system occurring under definite conditions.
Thus the temperature of the body must be moderate|
(certainly not less than 72°, or more than about 120°) ;|
the nervous tissue must be adequately supplied with
oxygen, and free from deleterious substances, and the more
important nervous structures themselves must not have
their continuity interrupted by any injury.

Difterent parts of the nervous system have different
functions, and the special functions of different nerves, are
partly learned by the study of their distribution and partly
by the very simplest observations. Thus irritation of the
nerves which go to the eye (to the retina) or to the internal
I ear, does not produce pain, but only certain sensations

* See above, p. 87.

1 66/^ ON TRUTH.

either of light or of noise. There is a great nerve, called
the pneumogastric, which passes down on either side from
the bram* to the heart, lungs, and stomach. If it be
divided the stomach ceases to move, its power of secretion
is impaired, the lungs become paralyzed, and suffocation
ensues ; but the beating of the heart is accelerated, so that
we conclude its normal function is, in part, to moderate
the heart's action. The nerves which come forth in pairs *
from the spinal cord minister either to sensation or to
motion, according to their distributions and connections.
If one of these nerves be divided, and the part cut off from
the spinal cord be irritated, then motion ensues in the
muscles to which such nerve is distributed, but no pain
accompanies such irritation. If the part which remains
attached to the spinal cord be irritated, then pain is caused,
but not motion. If the posterior root f of a spinal nerve
be alone severed, the parts supplied with twigs from such
nerve only, lose their sensibility, but their power of motion
remains. If the anterior root of such a nerve be alone
divided, then the parts supplied by such nerve are paralyzed
as to motion, but, nevertheless, retain their sensibility. If
the spinal cord itself be cut or broken through, it is impos-
sible for a man thus injured to feel any irritation which

J may be applied to the parts of his body which are supplied
with nerves coming forth from the spinal cord below the
point of injury. Neither can he voluntarily move such
parts. Nevertheless, movements of those parts may be
produced by stimuli applied to them, without the occur-
rence of either conscious sensation or voluntary effort. A
man so injured, though he may have entirely lost the
power of feeling any pricking, cutting, or burning, applied
to such parts, will none the less execute movements, often
in an exaggerated manner, in response to such stimuli,
just as if he did feel them. He will withdraw his foot if
tickled with a feather, just as if he felt the tickling which
he is incapable of feeling. Siicli unconscious movernerjt
in rpspnnt^f^ fo stimuli wliich are not felt, is called reflex
nciion. frir flip followmg-~ reason..; Under ordinary circuni-

I stances, stimulations of the surface of the body convey an

* See above, p. 150. f See /. c.

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY. f^^ljL-

- influence inwards which produces sensation and gives rise
; to an outwardly proceeding influence passing to the muscles,
: and resulting in definite appropriate motions. The in-
fluence inwards appears to travel upwards through the
spinal cord to the brain, which is ordinarily the organ of
both sensation and motion, and so produces feeling, while
the influence outwards appears to travel downwards from
the brain, through the spinal cord to the muscles, so
producing motion. When the spinal cord is divided, it is
no longer possible for these influences to ascend to the
brain (and, therefore, there is no feeling), or to descend
from the brain (and, therefore, there is no voluntary motion). -
But the unfelt influence travelling inwards is supposed, on
reaching the spinal cord, to be thence automatically reflected
outwards — as evidenced by the appropriate, responsive, but
/unfelt movements just described. These actions are there^
Jfbresaid to be "reflex/' * But the action of the stimulus
applied is evrciently not the cause of the action which
results, but only its occasion. The force emitted by the
organism is due to powers and energies latent within it,
which this stimulus makes active and manifest. There is
thus an evident spontaneity even in reflex action, though
it is nothing to that which our higher faculties make
, known to us.

But reflex action may take place in the uninjured con-
dition, as during sleep, or under the influence of chloro-
form, etc. Thus a medical friend of ours while removing
the finger of a lady who was under the influence of an
anaesthetic, heard her exclaim several times, " Oh, my poor
finger ! " Yet on recovering consciousness she had not, at
first, the slightest knowledge that the operation had been
performed.

Actions may occur which are so far analogous to reflex |
action that they take place independently of, or against,
the will though they are accompanied by sensations.!
Thus if an object not too large be placed very far back in
the mouth, it must be swallowed ; and, as before observed,t
the movements of respiration, though they can be for a
time voluntarily suspended, cannot be long so interrupted,

* See also below, chap, xxiii. t See above, p. 155.

fr
yl

f.

{

I 68 ON TRUTH.

but will take place in spite of the will, and automatically.
Such actions are distinguished by the term sensori-iiiotor^
Certain other actions may take place in an automatic
manner, as a consequence of sensations experienced. We
refer to those which are commonly called instinctive, and
which will be briefly noticed at the end of this chapter.*

Different parts of the brain are variously connected
with different movements and different sensations ; but, for
our purpose, these need not here be particularized.

A few words, however, must be said with respect to a
network of delicate nerves, which go to such organs as the
heart, arteries, intestines, liver, kidneys, generative organs,
etc., and which are spoken of as the " s\mi£athetic,sysi£i|j,''
Normally their activities do not give rise to sensation,
though in unhealthy conditions pain may accompany them.
Amongst these nerves are to be found numerous small,
rounded masses of nervous tissue, termed " ganglia," which
both receive and give forth nerve fibres. It is in the
highest degree probable that these ganglia act with the
nerves in a mode analogous to the reflex action of the spinal
cord. It is the presence of such a system... of gangliated
nerves in the substance of the heart which is supposecTTo
give to that organ its power of persistent contraction and
expansion — actions which will take place for a brief period p
even after its sudden removal from the body. Both secre-
tion and nutrition are largely influenced through the
sympathetic nerves which extend along the arteries and
regulate their contraction or expansion, and so the amount
of blood supplied to each part by them.

Thus, as before said, the nervous system is the great
co-ordinating system of the body which harmonizes and
regulates its activities generally. Nevertheless, the action
of the nervous system itself requires to be regulated and
to be adjusted to the actions of the other systems ; yet it
cannot regulate itself Moreover, those properties and powers
of motion, nutrition, circulation, chemical change, respira-
tion, and secretion, which we have found to be possessed
by the ultimate protoplasmic particles of the body's paren-
chyma, must be independent of the nervous system, since
* See below, p. 175.

■i0^

^

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY. 1 69

they are too minute to be supplied with nerves. In the
process of development again, as we shall see, the germ of the
body is at first devoid of nervous tissue, and its primary
orderly changes cannot, therefore, be due to regulating and
co-ordinating nervous action. There is thus no one point
whence all the activities of the body proceed. There are
minute nervous structures, injury to which will stop the
movements of respiration, and so cause death very quickly
There are multitudes of organs and parts of organs indis-
pensable for the life of the whole, but there is no one
, organ or part of an organ which can be said to be the
organ of the whole body's life. It is the whole body itself
which is the organ of the individual's life.

Moreover, our body has, within limits, a power of adapt-
ing itself to new conditions, which power cannot be due to
the particular arrangement of the nervous system, since
that arrangement is constant and universal in all men, while
the conditions may be varied and only occasional. Thus if
we are compelled to nourish oiu'selves with some unwonted
food, the due action of our digestive organs may be thereby
at first impeded. After a little time, however, the evil may
diminish, and our organism accommodate itself to its new
kind of nutriment. Such activities must be due to a power
possessed by the living body of persistently reproducing
some tissue change, caused by the reception of the new food,
as the change caused by a surface injury may result in a scar-
which will persist throughout life. This continuous repro- V
duction of a past affection of the organism may be figura- |
tively termed " orocanicrein in iscencc. ' ' Again, the activities f
of our body will respond to other impressions in an orderly, |
appropriate, but unfelt manner. We may observe this in
the oarsman's hand, the blacksmith's arm, and the ballet-
dancer's leg. Such activities may be spoken of as an
'^organic correspondence^,' or ^' adaptatio)i" It is notorious
also that "practice makes perfect." As to injuries, an old Ref^aho/
man may bear on his leg the mark of a kick received '"•^"""•
when a boy at school, this mark having been constantly
reproduced, for all that the tissues of his body may have
been again and again renewed in the course of a long life.
But processes of repair and healing take place more readily

170

ON TRUTH.

in the earlier stages of existence, though sometimes they are
very wonderful in adults. Thus after a wound, a perfectly
structureless fluid substance may be secreted and poured
forth from the parts about the wound. In this substance
cells will arise and become abundant, so that the substance,
at first structureless, becomes what is called " cellular tissue."
Then, by degrees, this structure transforms itself into
vessels, tendons, nerves, bone, and membrane — into some
or all of such parts^according to the circumstances of the
case. When a bone is broken its two broken edges soften,
the sharp edges thus disappearing ; then a soft substance
is secreted, and this becomes at first jelly-like, then gristle-
like, and at last bony. But not only do these different
kinds of substance — these distinct tissues — thus arise and
develop themselves in this at first neutral substance, but
very complex structures, appropriately formed and nicely
adjusted for the performance of complex functions, may
also be developed. We see this in the production of admi-
rably formed joints which are altogether new. Thus, a
railway guard met with so serious an accident that he was
compelled to have his elbow, including the elbow-joint, cut
out. Yet a new joint was afterwards formed almost as
good as the old one. Now, the arm contains one long bone
— the humerus — above the elbow-joint ; but there are two,
side by side, below it. The outer of these two bones, the
radius, ends above in a smooth-surfaced cup, which plays
against part of the lower end of the humerus, while below
the elbow, its side plays against the other bone — the ulna —
a cartilaginous surface being in each case interposed. The
radius and ulna are naturally united to the humerus by
dense and strong membranes, or ligaments, which pass
between it and them anteriorly, posteriorly, and laterally,
and are attached to bony prominences which project from
either side of the lower end of the humerus. Such was
the condition of the parts when the operation referred to
took place. Nine years after it the patient died, and the
arm was examined, which in the mean time had served
the poor man perfectly well, he having been in the habit of
swinging himself by it from one carriage to another, while
the train was in motion, quite as easily and securely as

•jitents.

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY. lj\

I with the other arm. It was found that the radius had

■ formed a fresh polished surface, and played once more both

I on the humerus and the ulna, a cartilage-like material

1 being interposed. The ends of the two lower bones were

1 again locked in between new processes of the humerus, and

bound to it by freshly formed lateral, anterior, and posterior

ligaments.* It would be easy to bring forward a number

of more or less similar cases.

These processes of growth take place in perfect nncox\-\Devein/>-
sciousness, and the will has no direct control over them.
Yet they are directed to a useful end, and are carried on
by vital processes which are practically full of purpose and
intention, though their end is altogether unforeseen, because;
quite unknown, to the patient who benefits by themj
The study of the mode in which lost parts are reproduced:
naturally lead us to the consideration of the process of
reproduction, or development, of the whole body. This
latter development is brought about by changes and pro-
cesses of growth which are most utterly unconscious, while
they are as full of purpose, and as entirely directed to a
predetermined, though unforeseen, end, as it is possible for
any bodily changes to be. No one can for a moment
pretend that the developing embryo knows the processes
of growth by which it is formed, or directs them by any
effort of its will. >.

By the " development " of the individual man, is sig- \
nified the sum of those rapidly succeeding changes of form j
which commence the life-history of every human being.
It should, indeed, properly mean the entire sum of changes
undergone from the junction of the sexual elements till
the complete maturity of the thence resulting organism.
Practically, however, the term has come to mean (as
above said) that early part of the process which takes
place up to, and shortly after, birth. Thenceforward the
I changes which ensue are less changes in the forms and
[ relations of parts of the body than in their dimensions, and
I such later part of the process of development is generally
I spoken of as " growth."

* See Mr. Timothy Holmes's " System of Surgery,'' 3rd edit., vol. iii,
p. 746.

172/^/ ON TRUTH.

The first germ of the future human body appears in the
shape of a minute rounded mass of protoplasm, from
which, by degrees, all the varied tissues and all the com-
plex parts which constitute the adult man are derived —
and thus every tissue of every kind is formed or " secreted "
by protoplasm. This simple protoplasmic particle, or cell,
divides and subdivides itself again and again, till three
layers of cells are gradually but rapidly formed. Thus
there is a close analogy between that process of growth
which constitutes the development of the individual, and
the growth (as before explained) of the several tissues of
the body.

Soon a gtgove appears on the surface of the embryo,
wherein is laid the foundation of the brain and spinal
cord, and, beneath the latter, that of the backbone. Then,
after certain other foldings, a heart shows itself and beats,
and blood is formed and circulates. Limbs also grow forth,
and jaws and sense-organs form themselves and, little by
little, the at first shapeless mass, more and more approxi-
mates to the human form. But the body is only built up
in a very roundabout way. Its earlier structural arrange-
ments are very different from those of the adult man. The
brain, at first, is not a minute model of the future brain,
for all that is most conspicuous in the adult brain is not
represented in it. The heart also is primitively even more
dift"erent from that of the full-grown man in form than
it is in size. It is a simple tube, which subsequently
becomes bent on itself and subdivided into chambers,
which, nevertheless, are not like those of the adult. Simi-
larly the blood-vessels which go to and from it are at
first very different from the full-grown man's in the course
they take. These arteries at first simply arch up on either
side of the throat and meet together dorsally to form the
great artery of the body — the aorta. The lungs, of course,
are functionless till birth changes the embryo breathing
through the blood of its mother, into the infant breathing
by its own aerial respiration. The first kidneys are not
those of adult life, in which they persist but as minute
functionless rudiments. There is also, to begin with, a long
tail ; but this does not continue to grow as do the adjacent

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY. 173^.

parts, and so it becomes entirely hidden beneath the skin. I

The Hmbs are of very different relative lengths at different *

periods of the process of development, and the great toe,

before birth, stands out widely from the others. Certain

clefts — termed visceral clefts — also exist for a timiC on

either side of the throat, and between them are solid

structures called "visceral arches," along which extend

those arteries which have been already said to arch up on

either side of the throat. The sex of the embryo is at

first indistinguishable, while the organs of generation of

both sexes at first appear alike, and only become different

through diversities of growth in the two sexes. The skeleton

is primarily represented by membranes, afterwards by

these and by cartilages, and only finally by bones. Instead

of the series of bones, each of which is called a " vertebra,"*

\ and which make up the back-bone, there is at first only

la continuous gelatinous rod, called the " notochord," or

J " chorda dorsalis." The bones are at first much more

numerous than those which are found distinct later in life,

as they grow together in various ways and at different

/ rates, in different parts, as life advances. Finally, before

birth, the whole body is clothed with a delicate coat of

^, hair, called the " lanugo," which subsequently falls off.

It is a notorious fact that children resemble ihe.].vU^<:>-edity
parents. It is not, however, their parents alone whosQ\a.riatio^^
form, disposition, or tendencies to disease are reproduced. | ^y^
Occasionally some characteristic of a grandparent, or more
remote ancestor, or even of some collateral relative, will
reappear. The transmission of parental char.acte£iaUfi:
|called "heredity," and is evidently a property not of the
foffspring, but of the parents who transmit their likeness.
^I'lt may be considered the primary or fundamental law of
fdevelopment.

But every man has had both a father and a mother,
and comes of a line of ancestors, every one of whom was
in the very same case. This fact modifies the great law
of heredity, so far as to produce a more or less complex
compound of hereditary tendencies, varying according
to (i) the amount of force springing from each ancestral
* See above, p. 152.

174

ON TRUTH.

\

strain, and (2) the compatibility or incompatibility of
the prevailing tendencies — resulting in an intensification,
per£etuation^,jmQdificatioiV-QJC,Ji£iitralizati of ancestral
characters,, as the .case may be. All such action is but
" heredity," acting in one or other mode ; nevertheless
it results in what are practically "variations" of offspring
from the parent form. The reproduction of ancestral
characters, as distinguished from parental, is termed
" atavism." But another and fundamentally different
kind' of ~ action from that of either heredity or atavism
also causes variation. Such are changes in the surround-
ing circumstances of parents or of the embryo during
its development, which may result in variations of form j
that may be inherited. Thus certain affections of the I
skin, or of the nervous system, or of the generative organs, ;
or of the hands and feet (supernumerary fingers and toes),
are very apt to be inherited. Amongst variations of
the generative organs, an entire absence of the uterus, or
womb, is sometimes inherited, and this is especially
interesting, because such a variation can only be propa-
gated indirectly.

There is another bodily activity we possess about which
a word or two should here be said. It is related to that
power of ours whereby actions are performed, that have
^been already distinguished * as " analogous to reflex
action." This is the power we have of forming habits,
which is itself the sign of our possession of a special in-
ternal spontaneity by which our organism tends, within
limits, to " react " v/hen acted on. For what is a " habit " .''
A " habit " is not formed by repeated actions, though it
may be strengthened and confirmed by them. If an act
performed once only t had not in it some power of genera-
ting a " habit," then a thousand repetitions of that act
would not generate it. Habit is the determination in one 1
jdixection of a previously vague tendency Xq action. We I
^ave a natural tendency to activity. Action is not only 1
natural to us, it is a positiv^e want. Our powers and
energies also tend to increase with activity and exercise
(up to a certain limit), while they diminish, and finally

See above, p. 167.

t See further below, chap, xxiii.

■ actions.

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE BODY. I 75

perish, through a too prolonged repose. Thus a power
of generating "habit" lies hid in all, and in the very first
of those actions which facilitate and increase the general
activity and power of our body, and facilitate and increase
the exercise of that power in definite modes and directions.^

This tendency to bodily activity which wndQxViQsl instinctive
"habit," naturally leads us on to consider the kind of action-
we before referred to* as "instinctive." Instinct, as a'"
" feeling," belongs to the next chapter,! but a mention of '
the bodily movements to which it gives rise must not here
be omitted. Instinctive movements differ from reflex
actions in that they are not merely responsive to a stimulus
felt, but are so responsive to it as to serve a future unfore-
seen purpose. Such an action is that of the infant which,
in response to a feeling produced on its lips, first sucks J
the nipple, and then swallows the thence extracted nourish-
ment with which its mouth is filled. It is an action neces-
sary for the nutrition and life of the infant ; it is also an
action done directly after birth, when there has been as
yet no time for learning to perform it. It is a definite and
precise action, and one performed in a similar manner by
all infants, though it is effected by a very complex mechan-
ism, and is performed at once, prior to all experience. But
not only sucking and deglutition, but also the movements
by which the products of excretion are removed from the
body of the infant, are instinctive. In later life, various
other instinctive actions minister indirectly or directly to
reproduction. It is an instinct which prompts the little
girl, with unconscious coquetry, to decorate herself, and
not only to fondle her doll, but to press it to that region
whence her future offspring will draw its nourishment.
Later on, when come the days of love and courtship, instinct
leads youths and maidens to seek each other's society, and
tends naturally to induce affectionate feelings and ulti-
mately caresses, each of which acts as a further stimulus,
ultimately leading on towards actions indispensable to
the race.

* See above, p. 168. t See below, p. 184.

X As to this, the celebrated anatomist, Bichat, says, " It is instinct, which
I do not understand, and of which I can give no account, which makes the
infant, at the time of birth, draw together its lips to commence the action of
sucking;. "

176

ON TRUTH.

Death and
UJe.

Hierarchy
of functions.

During the earlier stages of life the vital activities
which build up the body are manifestly in excess. Life
ever reacts upon obstacles and increases in vigour from the
need, which obstacles create, for increased activity on the
part of the organism. During middle life there is, roughly
speaking, a balance between the reparative and the destruc-
tive processes ; but as age advances, the processes of repair
relatively and absolutely decrease, and life is maintained
in a more and more unstable equilibrium, till the fatal end
inevitably arrives, and death reduces what was an " organ-
ism " (all the parts of which were reciprocally ends and
means) to a mass of organic matter of different kinds,
devoid of that intrinsic activity which pertained to it
through the whole of life. Normally, however, life does not
cease with the individual, but persists in that individual's
offspring. Generative activity accompanies the period of
life's greatest vigour, and but a relatively feeble vitality
characterises, as a rule, those declining years which remain
to us after the processes of reproduction have come finally
to an end.

During healthy life the actions of the various cells,^
tissues, organs, and systems of organs of the body, con-
stitute a hierarchy of activities which results in the supreme
activity which each of us knows as his own life. The
"cells" which constitute each several tissue of the body,
though they have a sort of life of their own, yet have their
(juasi individual lives merged, as it were, in the life and
activity of the tissue of which they form a part — just as
the various activities of the different minute fragments or
varieties of protoplasm which form a " cell " are merged in
the life of that cell. In the same way the properties of
the various tissues are merged in the function of the organ
of which they form a part. The stomach digests food,
and does it by means of the properties of its component
tissues, but it is the stomach as a whole which carries on
the function of such digestion, part of which is due to
muscular action (the contraction of the muscular fibres in
its walls), and part to solution. So, also, the functions of
each separate organ are merged in a higher unity, namely,
the function of the system of organs whereof they form a

THE ACTIVITY OF THE BODY. I 77

part. Thus the retina at the back of the eye has its own
activity, but it can only exercise it usefully, in conjunction
with the humours and structures in front of the retina ;
nor can all these together effect sight, without the brain ;
nor will even this conjunction suffice, except when a due
supply of vivifying blood circulates through the whole.
The heart, again, is the main organ of circulation ; yet cir-
culation is not a function of the heart apart from the vessels,
but of it and all the vessels likewise. In a similar way the
functions of all the systems of organs which together com-
pose the body, unite and merge into a higher unity of^
activity — the life of the whole body. This " life " is the
function of man's body considered as one whole, just as
the subordinate functions are those of the body's several
sets of organs.

Having thus briefly passed in review our essentially
bodily activities — those known to us by external observa-
tion— we must next proceed to consider those other bodily
activities with which we are made acquainted by conscious-
ness,— through introspection — and, ultimately, those higher
mental powers with which the activities of the body seem
to be least concerned.

N

■^w

ON TRUTH.

^

CHAPTER XIV.

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS.

We have a multitude of mere feelings severally related to the various
orders of our intellectual perceptions, emotions, and volitions.
These sensitive faculties, which are of the greatest practical
importance to life, exist beside the intellect, and not unfrequently
practically supply its place in simple matters when intellect is
permanently or temporarily absent.

Ill

A recapitidatio7i — T%vo o}'dcrs of mental powers — Pleasure and pain
— Defi7iite sensations — Consenticnce — Instinctive feelings — Mental
images — Their association — • Emotions — Sensuous memory —
Knowledge and sensuous ktiowledge — Feeliftgs of activity, pas-
sivity, power, self, not-self and difference — Sensuous generalized
cognitions — Feelings rclati7ig to succession, extension, positio7t,
shape, size, nu77iber, a7id 77iotio7i — Feeli7igs relati7ig to su7prise, doubt,
agreeme7tt a/id disagree77ient, a/id of pleasurable satisfactio7i fro7/i
c07idjict — Sc7tsuous i7ifere7ice a/id feeli7tg of causatio/t — Appetites
and desires— Te7ide7icy to i7/iitatio7i — E//iotio7ial la7iguagc^Feel-
ing for beauty — Co-ordi/iate feelings — 07ga/iic volitio7i — Se7isuous
atte7itio7i — Feeli7igs of 77iea7is a7id e/id.

The full significance of this chapter will probably not be
obvious to the reader at first. Its great importance and \
the utility of its contents will, however, appear more plainly j
in the fifth section of this work — that on science. In I
the mean time the student of truth is earnestly entreated
to pay particular attention to its contents, for we believe
the distinctions it treats of are amongst the most important
and the least noted in the whole study of the mind.
A recapitu- I^ thc foregoing chapter it has been shown that we

have three kinds of bodily activities :Xj.) those accompanied
by feeling and consciousness ; (2) those which can never be

lalion.

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS. 1 79

mentally perceived by us ; and (X^ -those which may be
accompanied by sensation and consciousness at one time
and not at another. Thus the intimate processes of growth,
reproduction, and development, can never be felt, and we
can never be conscious of them. Even the details of our
voluntary motions are generally imperceptible to us. Yet,
of course, we know full well when our body performs those
actions which we expressly desire it to perform. Certain
vital processes (such, e.g., as the act of breathing) usually
pass unnoticed, but can be observed and attended to at
will ; others, again (like the beating of the heart and the
contractions of the intestine), go on normally without being
felt, but, under certain circumstances, may be felt distinctly
and even painfully.

We have also seen that most important vital processes
— the ultimate processes of assimilation, respiration, and
secretion — take place beyond the direct and immediate
action of the nervous system on the minute parts which
perform them ; as, of course, does the first formation, in the
embryo, of the nervous system itself. We have also noted
that though feeling is a main function of the nervous system,
the same system, nevertheless, ministers both to motion
and secretion, and also plays its intermediate part in bring-
ing about those intimate life-processes before mentioned,
which are not felt. Thus the alimentary movements and
those of the heart, though normally unfelt, depend on the
integrity of those parts of the nervous system which are
distributed to them.

We have further noted how the nervous system may
act in a reflex manner * and, without the accompaniment
of any sensations, give rise to appropriate co-ordinated
bodily movements, just like those which would naturally
result from sensations.

Finally, we have seen how the occurrence of certain
sensations (such as those produced by a small object very
far back in the mouth) may give rise to motions (such as
those of the action of swallowing) which, though felt and
perceived, are utterly beyond the power of the will to
control.

* See above, p. 166.

.^

I 80 ON TRUTH.

There is thus a gradual transition in us from vital pro-
cesses performed altogether without the intervention of
the nervous system, through unfelt nervous acts, to acts
distinctly felt and voluntarily performed by the help and '''^'^
intervention of the nervous system.

Thus, as before pointed out,* we have, besides our in-
tellectual faculty and our sensitivity, also an unconscious
vital power by which life is mainly sustained, and by which
vital processes take place on the receipt of impressions
which remain unfelt and unknown to consciousness at the
time they occur.
Two orders Tumlug now OUT mental eye inwards and considering /

of mental . _ . . i

powers. our experiences by a process 01 mtrospection, we may note, f
in the first place, the elementary fact that we do expe- \
rience " sensations " of different kinds, and that we have also %
"perceptions" which are very different from "sensations." \
Indeed, we saw in the last section t that "sensations," |
i.e. " feelings," are the means and not the object of percep-
tion— unless, of course, our intellectual activity be directed
to them and so make them the objects of our attention.
Thus it is plain that there are two kinds of mental activity
— one typified by these, ordinarily disregarded, " feelings "
just referred to ; the other typified by the intellectual per-
ceptions to which they minister.

A great number of very different mental processes

naturally group themselves about one or other of these

two activities — " feeling " and " perception." Thus all the

acts of our mental activity can be arranged in two great

groups, which may be distinguished respectively as our

" higher " and " lower " mental faculties. For no one can

i question the higher and nobler quality of a process of

reasoning, or of a perception of moral merit or of demerit,

. compared with mere feelings of sourness or sweetness,

(' warmth or cold, hunger or repletion.

Now, distinct, conscious, intellectual activity accom-[
panics all those mental acts by which we examine any- 1
thing with attention, and therefore those acts by which we |
examine our mental acts themselves. Nevertheless, we
have, through memory, the power of looking back and

* See above, p. 94. t See above, p. 90.

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS. l8r

recognizing that some of our mental acts have not been
so accompanied. Thus we every now and then recollect
something we have recently seen or heard, but which we
were not conscious of at the time we saw or heard it, and
we constantly remember to have seen some object, and
therefore know we must have had the sensations neces-
sary to that perception, though we cannot even by any
effort recollect the sensations themselves, which we thus
know we must have felt. Such unconscious acts are
amongst those we reckon as belonging to the lower cate-
gory of our mental powers, and we shall meet with other

\ examples of the kind when we come to consider the lower

I forms of memory and knowledge.

1 Accompanying the exercise of our mental faculties of Piea$u,e

T -T ^ P ^ and pain.

[both the higher and the lower kinds, we may have either a
I feeling of pkasm'e or_.pjC_.paiiij or we may be, so far as we
I can determine, in a neutral condition, and not distinctly feel
either the one or the other. These pleasures and pains may
be very different in kind and degree. The pleasure expe-
rienced on solving an intricate problem, or the pain attend-
ing the discovery of tjie_unfaithfujness of a..beloved friendj
are different enough from the pleasure felt in drinking an
agreeably flavoured wine, or the pain of a burn. It is to
the pleasures and pains of the lower order to which we
would now advert — pleasures of the senses, of exercise
after prolonged repose, of agreeable imaginations and
emotions, and those attained in the gratification of the |
passions and desires. Now, unless diverted by some special
cause, we have each of us not only such pleasurable and
painful feelings, but we have an innate, twofold tendency
in their regard. On the one hand, this spontaneous
tendency inclines us to pursue, persist in, or plunge deeper
into whatever is pleasurable, and on the other, to avoid
whatever is painful.
/ What we here especially desire to call attention to is
the fact, not that we consciously and deliberately pursue yj ^
pleasure and avoid pain — for very often we do nothing of ( P^
the kind, and sometimes we consciously do the very reverse ,.■■
— but that we have an unconscious, spontaneous tendency
so to do, and that we automatically and instinctively act

1 82 ON TRUTH.

in this way when we do not advert to what we are about,
unless by so doing we act against any habit we may have
previously formed.

j It is one of the elementary facts of our mental life that
we have feelings of very different kinds — some of them so
distinct that we are unable even to conceive of any gradual
transition between them. Thus all but the blind and the
deaf, know how distinct is a sensation of colour from one
of sound. We cannot even conceive of a sensation inter-
mediate between blue and a given musical tone, or between
the smell of musk and the feeling of hot iron. It is true
that a blind man is said to have declared that he com-
pared scarlet (which he had never seen) to the sound of a
trumpet. But this may have been due to an association
of ideas between the red coats of English soldiers and the
military musical instrument. Anyhow, he did not pretend
that he could conceive of anything intermediate between
colour and sound, but only of an analogy between two
sensations of different orders. These definite sensations
are due to our organization. The eye translates all stimuli
applied to it in terms of light — as a blow is said to
make the eye " flash fire." Similarly the auditory nerve,
however stimulated, makes but one response — sensations
of sound — and the same is true of the other organs
of special sense. Obviously, for all we know, we might,
had we additional sense organs, become acquainted
with other properties of bodies now unknown to us. Our
sense-knowledge is also conditioned by our organs, and ■.
limited to what they can tell us. Besides special sensa-
tions of colours, sounds, smells, tastes, and those we call
feelings of contact, or of heat and cold, we have a great
variety of sensations due to the different characters of the
surfaces of objects — smooth, rough, soft, hard, etc. We
have a variety of feelings of pressure (active and passive)
and others due to effort and the relative positions of parts
of our body, as in grasping objects of different sizes or
weights, or at different distances ; objects either at rest,
or slowly, quickly, feebly, or powerfully in motion. All
these various feelings, moreover, can not only be so felt
as to be consciously perceived, but also, as before observed,

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS. I 8 3.,

may occasion unnoticed feelings, and so give rise to cor-
responding actions without our being conscious of them,
as will shortly be more fully pointed out.
i Now, the unfelt influences, before adverted to, which Consen- 1

' 1 • 1 n • • 1 tzence. I

; brmg about our reflex actiions and those unconsciously

; felt sensations which produce involuntary responsive

\ actions, instinctive or otherwise, all agree in this — that they

1 aflect our bodily organism ; and all those that are felt affect

; our sensitivity. Whether they are feelings of colour, light,

darkness, loud or gentle sounds, pungent odours, heat,

cold, contact, or what not, they must be received by one..

^common ultimate sensorium, or they would not produce

the effects they do. A sudden half-blinding light, a sudden

half-deafening sound, a sudden sensation of burning, will

all produce a similar result in the form of an involuntary

start. And when we interrogate our own experience, we 1

find that ajl our varied sensations, as we consciously know 1

them, do meet, as it were^ln ou? "Being^ and all become so\

many modifications of our consciousness. As, however, '

TlTese sensations may (as' we have seen already, and shall

I see more clearly later) * be felt without consciousness, we

require a term to express the faculty we have of receiving

I them all, in one unity of our being (one sensorium) apart

f from consciousness. The best term to denote this faculty,

' seems to be " consentience." When our mind is entirely

directed upon some external object, or when we are almost

in a state of somnolent unconsciousness, we have but a

vague feeling of our existence — a feeling resulting from the

unobserved synthesis of our sensations of all orders and

degrees. Such unintellectual sense of "self" is a form of

"consentience." It is by this faculty of "consentience"

that the unconscious sleep-walker receives and accurately

responds to the varied impressions which surrounding

objects make upon his organs. It is by the same faculty,

again, that the idiot makes such responses as he can

make to similar impressions ; and this shows us how

(by the help of his rational fellow-creatures) a man may

for years unconsciously receive sensations and so unite

them, as to be able to continuously respond to them

* See below, p. 187.

Instinctive '
feelings. \

ON TRUTH.

without ever having had one scintilla of self-conscious
intellect.

Instinctive actions have already been referred to.* Of
the feelings which accompany such actions we are either

I altogether unconscious, or they exist independently of
consciousness, with which they can entirely dispense. Thus
the action of the infant when it first sucks the nipple and
swallows the nutriment thence extracted, must be done
unconsciously, and has no more been learned, than it is
performed by the infant with a deliberate intention to

, nourish its body. ^"The feeling of instinct is more than a ^
want, and less than a desire,' H.^is- a certain felt,^ bu^t

"not perceived (felt by " consentience," but not perceived
by " rnimrinii.cine.sg; "),f internal .stimulus-ta definite act;i9ns>
which stimulus has its foundation in a certain feeling_of
want, but is not a definite feeling of want of the particular
end to be attained*>^.W.e.i'e that recognized, it would_^not
be " instinct," ^butJijd-esiiJe^ It is but a vague craving, or
a mere tendency, to exercise certain activities on the
of certain sensations, which activities ,CQn-

Instinctive feeling

r

occurrence
luce €o use

certain sensations,

seen ends.
often sets in action organs quite different from those
which feel the prick of want, and which do not (ex-
perience apart) seem to have relation with it. The
feeling of hunger does not stimulate to action the organs
of digestion which suffer from it, but excites the limbs and
jaws to perform acts by which food may be obtained and
eaten. The infant's first act of sucking is not only due
to sensation, but consentience accompanies it. It is not,
therefore, a mere reflex act. The instinctive feelings which
minister to reproduction are most remarkable and powerful.
They constitute a rigorously determined and precise want,
partly painful, partly pleasurable. If any one would deny
that the actions they lead to are instinctive and indepen-
dent of the conscious intellect, let him study the sad
phenomena connected therewith which may be observed
in our asylums for the idiotic and insane. The first activ£
exercises of the senses of seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting,

* See above, p. 175. As to instinct in animals, see below, chap, xxiii,
t This distinction will appear more clearly in chap, xv., " Consciousness,"

1>

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS. 1 85

and feeling (the first "looking," the first "listening,"
etc.) which the child performs at the very beginning of
its learning to perform them, may also be regarded as
" instinctive."
: It is a notorious fact, and the experience of the reader Mental
\ will at once assure him of its truth, that " feelings which
' have been e.xpm£ii££d.^iaaj>^-agairL.recjaj:^i^,.w we call
j^OiF'^^^^agmation," Mental images (or " phantasmata," as '
' they were called of old) are faint reproductions of before
felt sensations and groups of sensations, and we cannot
doubt but that some, at least, of those parts of the nervous
system which are strongly stimulated in experiencing
actual sensation, are also faintly (or it may be, strongly)
re-excited during the imagination of such sensation. Here, f
again, we have abundant evidence that mental powers of[
this kind can and do exist apart from the action of our 1
conscious intellect. How common is the experience of i;
melodies which seem to haunt us, and not only rise un- •
bidden, but cannot easily be got rid of; and the same
thing occurs with the mental reappearance of harrowing,
or dispiriting, or very fascinating objects we may have
witnessed^^

In the opening of the first chapter of this work it was Their

1 * 1 r 1 • 1-11 • 11 association.

pomted out that teehncrg^ \uLufth.43^ve befip .■e^:per.ien.Q^r!. hy,
_us^ successive! \\ come to be associated together. We also
naturally associate imaginations one with another, and
imaginations with sensations, and both of these with emo- ,
tions. It is very important, for our present purpose, to note ^r'^i
I this power which we have of associating together, feelings V-
(sensations) and imaginations in, groups, and in groups of
groups, so that when one or more of the feelings associated
in the imagination is again freshly experienced, all the
feelings which have been associated with it in the past
tend to be aroused also. Examples of the exercise of these
powers of association and consequent revival often occur.
Thus the sound of a dinner-bell, or the sight of an ex-
panded umbrella, may instantly arouse in our minds
associated images of food or of rain. It is not only that
we intellectually know that the bell may be a call to

* See above, p. 6.

I 86 ON TRUTH.

\ dinner, or that the umbrella is probably expanded on
I account of rain, but associated images may arise before the
thoughts with which they are connected, and such images
may persist for a time in spite of our efforts to expel
them. On hearing, after perhaps an interval of many
I 3;ears, the notes of some melody familiar in early days,
images may be aroused which will kindle long dormant
ions, emotions. The old man may momentarily become, in
imagination, a youth once more, and seem to feel his half-
f paralyzed limbs again treading the rhythmical measures of
the waltz, and his feeble arm supporting a form dear to
'•^-memory. Even so simple a sensation as that of some
odour will often recall a whole train of vivid images which
have been therewith associated in the past. These com-
plex associations of feelings, accompanied with more or
less pleasure or pain, constitute the emotions of our lower
mental nature. Such lower emotions may be aroused in
us apart from the exercise of our reason. Thus the emo-
tion of fear may sometimes be suddenly excited before
there is time for any speculation about, or comprehension
of, the cause which has excited it. Emotions connected
with hunger and the instinctive feelings relating to repro-
duction, may be aroused unconsciously and may exist in
idiots. Other sensuous emotions are, feelings of sympathy
and companionship — apart from the intellectual recog-
nition of the existence of claims on our sympathy, or of
the presence of others with us. We may also note the j
feeling aroused by evidences of hostility or disapproval!
on the part of our fellows, and the peculiarly painful and 'i
regretful feeling of " sham.ej' following upon our sense of'
having done something likely to call forth such hostility
or disapproval. I refer here only to the feelings which
may follow such actions, and not at all to any intellectual
judgment we may make concerning them.
Hous \ In our chapter on memory we observed* that no
T^' ! repetition of a feeling constitutes an act of memory unless
b^ ! we are conscious of it not only as existing, but as relating
^/^ to the past. But the facts of unconscious imagination
; and association show manifestly that we have, neverthe-

* See above, pp. 31, 32.

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS. ^'^1^/j

' less, a certain power of retention with respect to sensations
and emotions, and a power through which we can not only
preserve, but re-excite them. This retentive faculty liesj
at the base of our wonderful powers of recollection ands
reminiscence,* but is something radically different, andj
exists apart from consciousness. Nevertheless it may, hy\,
analogy, be distinguished as " sensuous memory," or the 1
'JjS£sa.ory of the imagination." It is by the help of this
faculty that we perform unconsciously a multitude of
familiar actions — as introspection shows us. Of course,
whenever we think, we are necessarily conscious ; but,
nevertheless, memory enables us to detect the past ex-
istence in us of sensuous memory based not upon con-

. sciousness but consentience. Thus we may detect ourselves
as having performed such acts as the following, and as,

\ therefore, having unconsciously possessed and exercised
in doing thejij that uncoiiscious meniojryjDf the irnagina-
tfon without which they„cQuld never-hasie. be^a-^pne : We

may find, for example, that wg,jSet out on a walk to some

i place in a_distant part of the city, and on the way became
immersed in speculations about business or politics, so
that the sounds and sights about us were either lost to con-
sciousness or only aroused it feebly and instantaneously.
We were what is called " lost in thought." Yet we did not
miss our way along the familiar road ; each turning, each
crossing, was accurately effected, and it may be we were only
roused from our reverie by the sight of the place we
set out to reach. Here, then, although we had no con-
scious memory or reminiscence of the several objects wliich
passed before our eyes in reverie, yet we must have had
an unconscious or sensuous memory of the imagination
"concerning them, or they could not have served to rightly
guide us along our path. Again, let us suppose the case
of a lady playing with perfect facility on the piano a
difficult piece of music, which it has cost her much
I labour and attention to learn. While she is playing it,
I she talks to a gentleman who she thinks will very likely
I make her an offer. Her consciousness is absorbed in
I attending to his words, his tone and manner, with mental

* As to this distinction, see above, p. 31.

I 88 ON TRUTH.

side-glances as to fortune, temper, and other matters. Yet
she may never falter in her playing, nor in the long-prac-
tised delicate distinctions as to the force and prolongation \
of pressure with which the different keys should be struck. \
But her consciousness all the while may be so far from j
being directed to the actions of her fingers that, were she 1
so to direct it, the probability is that her execution would \
be thereby impaired. Almost every one who plays the i
piano knows how often a melody once learned, but now in
part forgotten, can be best recalled by studiously turning
the mind away from what is being done, while an effort is

■ made to play it automatically. In other words, the melody
is recalled by avoiding the use of intellectual memory, and

1 by trusting entirely to that sensuous memory, which has
'-. become, as it were, embodied in the nerves and muscles —

■ the retentive memory of the imagination. In a certain
vague and improper sense we may be said, having learned
to do such things, to " recollect " how to do them ; but
unless the mind recognizes the past in the present while
performing them, they are not instances of intellectual
memory, but merely instances of that retentive faculty
which we have distinguished as sensuous memory.

Knoiviedge By the aid of sensuous memory and the power of

and sen- ^ _ •' ^

suousknow associating the retained impressions, or images, of past

ledge. . ■^ 1

sensations and imaginations, united in groups and groups
of groups, we come to possess a power recognizing objects
and practically knowing them in a merely sensuous way,
apart from a real intellectual knowledge of them. Here,
again, being the rational animals we are, we cannot know
them except intellectually when we think about them.
We cannot, of course, so know them except consciously.
But memory enables us to recognize the fact that we must
have occasionally known objects in the past in a merely
sensuous manner ; and since everything must be a possible
thing which has actually occurred, we may be sure we can
have merely sensuous knowledge since we may thus assure
ourselves that we have had it. Now, in the instances t
before given of the piano-playing and the walk into the ?
city, the notes of the instrument and the places traversed {
in the walk must have been practically recognized, and \

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS. ^^9 Ay

therefore known in a certain sense, or they could not have
been made use of as supposed.

In fact, great ambiguity exists as_ to tlxe. -use of .the
word "know." Just as before with the term "memory,"
so also here, certain distinctions must be drawn if we
would think coherently.

(a) To " know," in the highest sense which we give to
the word, is to be aware (by a reflex act) that we really >
have a certain given perception. It is a voluntary, intelli-
gent, fully self-conscious act, parallel to that kind of
memory which was before distinguished* as "recollection "
and contrasted with " reminiscence."

(d) We also say we " know " when we do not perform
a reflex act, but yet have a true intellectual perception — jj^
a perception accompanied by consciousness — as in most of
our ordinary intellectual acts, e.^: in giving orders, or learn-
ing, or teaching, or pointing out any facts.

(c) But when we so " know " a thing that it can be'
done unconsciously, we cannot be said to " know " it intel-f
lectually, although in doing that thing the nervous an^ .^f
motor mechanism of our body acts (in response to th^ jjj^
stimulus of sensations) as perfectly as, or even more per-j
fectly than, in our fully conscious actions. The "know-l
ledge " which accompanies such " unconscious action " is
improperly so called, except in so far as we may be able
to direct our minds to its perception, and so render it
worthy of the name — just as we may direct our attention
to acts of sensuous memory, so as to make them conscious
acts. In^the same way, then, in which we have already
distinguished from acts of true memory, those unconscious
. reminiscences we have termed acts of sensuous memory, ^^.
; SO we may distinguish from true intellectual cognition, that A' '
power of unconscious apprehension which may by analogy _«- ^
be termed "sensuous cognition ; "and as vye haye a true
intclltctiial perception . of objects, so also we «iay..Ji2Lve"''
mere]}' a sensuous per.ception of them, which may akQ-.b.e
called a '' seiise-pevceptionr

Amongst our various feelings there are two which SLre^ctlvify,"'^
of constant occurrence and have great significance. When- TowZ%)/,

not-self, and
* See above, p. 31. difference.

IQO ON TRUTH.

ever we act, we have a certain vague feeling of our self-
nctivity and exertion of power or force, and when we are
acted on, a feeling of passivity. These feelings are quite
apart from the intellectual consciousness we have of our
existence, and of the action of bodies on us. Thus we may
be walking (as before supposed), so deeply immersed in
thought as to be quite unconscious of our movements.
Let this be the case, and then let the wind (blowing in the
same direction as that in which we are walking) so increase
as to make us go on faster than we were spontaneously
going. We shall thus come to have a feeling — " force
exercised upon us " — of being acted on by a power external
to us ; a feeling different from that which corresponded
with our activity acting alone and without the external
propulsion. Thus it is plain that we can have not only a
feeling of our activity, and another of our passivity, but
also a feeling corresponding with the difference between
these states, apart from our intellectual recognition of that
difference.* So, again, in feeling one hand with the other,
we have a double feeling of self-activity, and a double
feeling of resistance and passivity, and in each hand we
have combined feelings of both activity and passivity, and
the passivity of the one is felt in correspondence with the
self-activity of the other. Thus, by the aid of consentience
and without consciousness, we may have a distinct feeling
or sense of self — apart from an intellectual perception of it
— and also a feeling or sense of " otherness," or " not-self,"
with respect to things external to us. Thus, if we consider
the mere feelings which accompany the action of drawing
our hand over a foreign body, or of grasping that body, we
shall find that we have there, again, the combined feelings
of activity and passivity in the hand ; but its passivity is

* An amusing instance of such feelings, together with strong emotions
with much apparent rationality, but without consciousness, is given by the
late Dr. Carpenter, in his " Mental Physiology " (1874), p. 605. Speaking of
two somnambulists who were being experimented upon when he was present, he
tells us, " A violent blow was struck, which chanced to alight upon the second
somnambulist ; his combativeness being thereby excited, the two closed and
began to belabour one another with such energy that they were with difficulty
separated. Although their passions were at the moment so strongly excited
that, even when separated, they continued to utter furious denunciations
against each other, yet a little discreet manipulation of their muscles soon
calmed them and put them into perfect good humour."

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS.

thus no longer felt (as when it grasped the other hand) in
conjunction and correspondence with a feeling of self-
activity in the object (here a foreign body) which gives rise
to its feeling of passivity. In this case we come to have a
feeling of our own action, and a feeling of the action on us
of something external to us — that is, a practical, sensuous
feeling of self and of other objects, without any intellectual
recognition of our own existence, or of the fact that the
external objects are objects. In order to have these
feelings, it is necessary also to have a certain feeling of
difference ; for feelings can neither be different in kind, or
even succeed each other in time, without giving rise to
some feeling corresponding with the difference which
makes these feelings unlike each other and, in this way,
distinguishable and practically contrasted in our sensorium.
_ _ But as feelings and imaginations become associated .s"f«j!«(7«j > ^
through bein^ ..e^4:>fefieneed in-^ticcession, so 2k^!0-^Q -%QVi- ^cognitions'! ^
suous cognitions become associated by their resemblances,
so as to give rise to a generalized, sensuous cognition. As
before pointed out,* a successive series of slightly different
images may generate another mental image of a generalized
kind — an image which is different from each of the separate
engendering images, though partaking of the nature of all
— like those universal photographs, wherein, by the super-
position of slightly different images, we actually get such
a kind of generalized photograph.f When the sleep-
walker or the man in a reverie sees objects in his path
which he avoids, we cannot doubt but that he feels them
not only as individual objects, but as objects of one or
another kind — a door, a step, a curtain, or whatever it
may be,^ ,

It may be well here next to note certain other feelings Feelings re-
\ which relate to the succession, extension, position, shape, sVZision,
'• size, number, and motion of objects. %Mion!'

In feeling something in motion (as on feeling the links 'number!and
of a chain drawn across the hand), we have a feeling corre- ^"°^"'"-
spending with the succes^imi-oi the parts as they pass, and

* See above, pp. 103, 105.

t Such generalized mental images will be spoken of as " sensuous univer-
sals " in the next chapter. See below, p. 206.

192

ON TRUTH.

a feeling of the tcnnination of the succession, when the
motion has come to an end.
I It is the same as regards the serial nature of the feeling
we have when we hear a succession of sounds, or see a
series of similar objects in a line ; and if there is a physical
resemblance between the series of succeeding things, there
is a corresponding resemblance between the feelings they
induce, and which, of course, also succeed each other in a
series. We have no feeling of succession itself. Succession, ,.
as apprehended by us, is a purely intellectual apprehension../
Nevertheless, we have feelings which correspond with
succession, and also feelings which correspond with the
termination of any succeeding series of feelings. Similarly,
in exploring any solid object with our hands, we have the
intellectual perception of its three dimensions — length,
breadth, and thickness. But we also have, at the same
time, a number of feelings of touch, pressure, the motion of
our hand and fingers, etc., and thus we come to have one
group of feelings corresponding with the extension of the
object felt, together with feelings corresponding with its
limits, or the felt terminations of its extension in different
directions. In this way we come to have certain bundles
or groups of feelings corresponding with the shapes of
bodies, and also (as by the need of more or less widely
extending our arms or fingers to embrace them, or of
moving our head or eyes to survey them) other bundles or
groups of feelings corresponding with the magnitudes of
bodies. We have also other groups of feelings correspond-
ing with the unity or multiplicity oi bodies — as when we
are affected by a single object {e.g. in running against a
tree's trunk), or by many objects, as when out in a sharp
hailstorm.

By drawing a chain over the hand we may obtain, as
has just been said, feelings of succession ; but these feelings ;
are also accompanied by a feeling of its motion, as we feel
the succession of its points of contact over the breadth of
the hand. A very distinct difference of feeling also takes
place when this motion is brought to an end, while the
chain is still held and felt in the grasp. In this latter case
we experience a feeling corresponding with its rest, as

OUR LOWER MENTAL ROWERS. 1 93

distinguished from that corresponding with its motion.
The feeling of motion is the feehng most constantly called
into play, for it is only by some change — that is, some form
of motion — that feelings are excited at all. Thus motion
is one of the first of such complex feelings which we
experience, and by its very reiteration and the consequent
familiarity of our organization with it, it is and must be
one of the easiest and most readily felt and imagined
throughout life. .

These feelings of ours are not ordinarily noticed or •
attended to by us, because our minds are habitually occu- ! /Ir"^
pied with the perceptions to which such feelings minister,
and not at all with the sensations themselves, which, as t"
before pointed out, are but the meang^and, not the objects^fl
perception.. Nevertheless, a little careful examination otl
our mental experiences in daily life will soon show that j
/ these feelings do exist in us. Their existence amply serves
to accolTnTTor the occurrence, in a state of unconsciousness,
of a variety of actions which seem to imply the presence of
conscious intellectual apprehensions which we know from
the circumstances — as in cases of sleep-walking and reverie
— cannot really be present. We have, however, been
prepared for such occurrences by the phenomena of reflex
action. Single impressions which are not felt may, we
have seen, induce responsive reflex actions, like those which
would be made if the said impressions were felt. It is not
wonderful then that groups of unconsciously experienced
feelings should be sometimes able to induce responsive
actions, like those which would have resulted, if the groups
of feelings in question had aroused consciousness, instead
of having merely affected consentience.*
\ We experience a certain feeling^^^of shock ...\yhsXL^M:^o^ f"'^'"^' ;_
fthe occurrence of j:erta[n_ sensations^,, other. ,s.easations^^^^^/^'>.
Idrffcrcht from those which have _beco^ne^s^ociated_^^^
Ithe former, come unexpectedly upon us^ Let us suppose nnnt and
we grasp an artificial orange so well made as not only /action.
to look like, but to feel like an orange, and that then
we cut it open and find its interior very different from
what we were thus led to imagine. Thereupon we have,

* As to " consentience," see above, p. 183.

O

194/^/

ON TRUTH.

of course, our intellectual perception of the fact, but we
also have a certain feeling of shock accompanying our
surprise on making the discovery. Similarly, if the nature
of an object seems to us doubtful, we have a feeling of
suspended action accompanying our state of intellectual
doubt. If we find out that the object is in truth what
we anticipated it to be, we have, on the instant of finding
this out, a feeling, as it were, of smooth and easy transi-
tion which accompanies our perception of its agreement
with our anticipations or its congruity with them. If, on the
other hand, it turns out not to be what we anticipated
that it was, then a feeling somewhat like that of arrested
motion accompanies our perception of its disagreement,
or its incongruity, with our anticipations. Similarly,
when any one behaves to us kindly, we have a feeling
of satisfaction, and a similar feeling very often attends the
performance by ourselves of kindly actions to others. I
refer here to the mere vague emotion, or feeling, which
attends such actions, not, of course, to any perception of
their kindness. This kind of feeling is to be distinguished
as a feeling of pleasurable satisfaction froin conduct, and
forms, as it were, the material basis of a higher emotion.*

It thus comes about that, by the exercise, combinatipp,,

and association of all these different kimis,.ef feelings —

I by the association of sensations, imaginations, feelings of

'^-'pTeasufe and pain, feelings of activity and passivity, and

feelings corresponding with the succession, extension,

V'l figure, magnitude, unity, multiplicity, motion, and rest of

bodies ; \ve come to possess groups of feelings of the most

varied kinds, which feelings correspond with the different

states of a multitude of external objects which have given

■I rise to them. These groups, and groups of groups of / 1

I feelings, underlie and accompany our intellectual percep- I

tions of material things, and therefore these groups of

fjeeljjigs may not improperly be termed, as before s^id,t

" sensuous cognitions " or " sense-perceptions."

Sensuous j The cousidcration of this power and habit of association

'andfeeLz ; amottgst fcclings which we have now recognized, leads on

o/causation.',. ^^^ another consequence worthy of note. Whc

* See below, p. 221. f See above, p. 191.

<L..^ < ■ — — '

and

'^^

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS.

V group of sensations has become intimately associated ^with. '' '-'
certain other sensations, then, upon the recurrence of that
|grou£j^an imagination of the sensations previously asso-
ciated therewith, spontaneously arises in the mind, and we
"J^i^"?^ 'expectant feeling of tlieir proximate—actual recur-
j^ejiae. Thus the sensation of a vivid flash of lightning
has come, by association, to lead to an expectant feeling
of the thunder-clap to follow, and the sight of what looks
like an orange, may lead, in a thirsty man, to an expectant
feeling of sweeLj-uiriness, quite apart from an intellectual
recognition of the properties of an orange in the latter
case, or of the relation between lightning and thunder, in
the former case. This expectant imagination of sensations")
yet to come, brought about by the presence of a definite V
group of feelings freshly experienced, has a certain analogy £ ■
with reasoning or inference, although altogether distinct \^
from it^^essentially. VVe may, then, distinguish this kind \
of feelino^jas sensuous infereiice. Closely allied to it is that )
feeling of wondering expectation which sometimes arises —
as, for example, when we hear some strange sound or
see some unexpected movement — together v/ith the satisfied
feeling which ensues when the wondering feeling is calmed
through some new experience — as, for example, the sight
of some bird which has caused the sound or motion. We
refer, of course, to mere feelings which may spontaneously
arise, apart from the intellect ; and such feelings are the
sensuous antecedent or accompaniment, of the intellectual
apprehension of causation.*

We have already referred to our emotions, and it can appetites

and desire

hardly be necessary to point out that we have also feelings
of appetite and desire which exist independently of the in-
tellect, though the intellect can, by reflexion, recognize their
■existence. That they have this fundamental independence
— that, however they maybe controlled by reason, they are
in no way due to reason — is proved by the fact that even
idiots and new-born babes possess them. We do not need
intellect in order to feel hungry or that we may make a
hearty meal.

As to " causation," see above, p.

Appetites, emotions, and desires are the ac^encies \\\{\Qm'^e»de>uy to

196

ON TRUTH.

Eviotional
language.

W-.

set going the greater part of our bodily activity, not dis-
tinctly due to the intellect. We have also a curious, active
tendency which can hardly be said to be due to any dis-
tinct desire or emotion, and this is our tendency to imi-
tation— often so remarkably developed in childhood. Of
course, we may be inclined intentionally to imitate, but
this is not at all a manifestation of the tendency here
referred to. The latteil-i^.welLexemplified by that spon-
taneous, automatic yawn, which we often find follows when
we have seen another person yawn. Such spontaneous
and unintentional imitation is often carried much further,
notably by some idiots, who will accurately imitate almost
any actions which may be performed before them. This
tendency may seem at first very surprising. When, how- \
ever, we reflect that the sight of any movement tends \
slightly to stimulate those very nerves in the observer
which correspond with those by which the action observed
has been produced, it becomes easily explicable. For, let
this stimulation be sufficiently augmented, and actual move-
ment on the part of the observer almost necessarily follows.
In the same way, manifestations of emotion of any
kind on the part of one person, tend to arouse the same
emotion in other persons — sometimes giving rise thus to
a widespread panic.

Now, it is an important fact for us to note that our
i feelings, and especially our emotions, may be expressed
! by external sig^tis, which are so far from being rational a4id_-^
i intentional, that we may be unaware of them, or, if,4:5Ka£e^_
j of~nTe"m7'unable to suppress them. Thus the emotion of
■ terror shows itself by. tremblings of Hp and limb, a drop-
ping of the jaw, suppressed breathing, a deadly pallor of
the face, and staring eyes. With the emotion of anger, T
the eyes glare, the haniTs" are often clenched and raised, /
and the lips compressed or possibly distorted in a fierce I
grin. Such signs and accompanying cries, produce sym-
pathetic effects on the beholders ; who are often, at times
of intense excitement, led to respond by similar signs and
cries which express feelings instead of, or rather than, ideas ;
and thus we have a language of emotion* This emotional,

* See below, chap. xvi. , " Kinds of Language."

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS. 197

un intellectual language may either consist of (jj. inarticu-
late sounds, such as cries of joy, pain, or surprise, or the 1
murmur of a mother to her infant ; (2) articulate sounds, |
such as the talk of certain idiots who will repeat, without
understanding, every phrase they hear, or words uttered
by rational persons during emotional excitement, without ;
advertence, and without the intention of affirming or deny- I
ing or asking anything ; and (3) gestures which do not '
answer to rational conceptions, but are merely the mani-
festations of emotions and feelings. We have but to
recollect the articulate sounds which compose the unmean-
ing oaths so often uttered in every European language,
in order to feel quite sure that words may be spoken
under strong emotional excitement which denote feelings
only, and not intellectual conceptions.

The sympathy which emotion will beget, may also FeeUn^for
notoriously be excited by certain appearances and sounds. ^"'" ^'
Persons are often strongly, sometimes overpoweringly,
attracted by the aspect of the form or features of other
persons, mostly of the opposite sex. Similarly, the charm ,
jpf^the timbre in some human voices is extremely great. ' |
These feelings of taste vary greatly in different individuals,
and no divergence is more proverbial than that which exists
in matters of the kind. Nevertheless, however much the
modes of this feeling may differ, it exists more or less in all
men, and is so far from being due to our rational nature
that our reason may have no direct influence over it.

We have already noticed* those co-ordinations o{co-ordi-

1 1-1 1 1 • 1 rr Hated

bodny movement by which we effect spontaneous actions, >^^'>'^jf.
such as the act of throwing a stone at a mark, which we
gave as an example. The different feelings of activity,
passivity, etc., which have been described in this chapter,
accompany the co-ordinated actions described in the
former chapter ; and these feelings guide the action of the
body as if it were a sort of automatic, sensitive machine.

That such co-ordinated actions may take place through
the intervention of merely sensuous influences — apart from |
the conscious intellect — is made plain by the fact that }
many idiots and sleep-walkers perform them. Even the '
* See above, pp. 156, 157.

:98/>y

ON TRUTH.

most intellectual of mankind may voluntarily set their
bodily mechanism going in a certain mode and direction,
and then, withdrawing the mind entirely from its actions,
leave it to work, as it were, by itself. An example of such
action we have already given when we supposed a man
walking to his destination " lost In thpugjht." Evidently
we may so walk, till we are surprised at finding we have
arrived at, or possibly overshot, our destination, and this
without having at all thought about our journey while on
the road. But the remarkable power which we have of
co-ordinating sensFtions an(:!7"tlTrough them, co-ordinating
motions, is still better exemplified by the, before given,
example of the piano-player. In playing " by heart,"
the actions of the hands follow each other in orderly
series in connection with felt touches of the keys and
"and heard sounds of the notes. Let a key stick or a note
be dumb, and the automatic action ceases — through a
failure of co-ordination in the associated sensations — and
intellectual attention is at once aroused.
Organic Thc rcsult of all the foregoing powers of feeling and

■ohtwn. co-ordination is, that we have an automatic power of
co-ordinating and uniting our various pleasurable tenden-
cies into now one and now another dominant impulse, quite
apart from any act of conscious will. Here, again, the
acts of idiots, sleep-walkers, and persons in a state of
reverie, will amply bear out our assertion. This power of k
synthesizing our various pleasurable tendencies into^ome'i
dppiinant impulse is parallel to that power of similarly |
synthesizing our movements into one complex general
^ action which was before described.*

One of the plainest and. most notorious facts of our
, mental life is that power which we have; Qi'„. voluntarily.^
(^/. f dtrecting our attention upon something which solicits our

notice. But, apart from_ this conscious, distinctly iut2U«»«
Icctual act, an increased .energy in the action of our.orgaiii?,-.
j_of special sense, naay be excited, altogether apart from oux
liniellcjct ^nd-CQnscir^isgyJill. Thus the feeling of "shock,"
I before adverted to.f will of itself lead to the increased
application of our senses to an object in quite an automatic
* See above, p. 157. t See above, p. 193.

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS. 199

way. Such a phenomenon has often been observed in
a sleep-walker who, missing some object from its wonted
place, will begin to look or feel for it. We may also
observe in ourselves, when startled by some new and dis-
turbing object, how our senses automatically direct them-
selves to it without waiting for the bidding of our conscious
will. Such action may be conveniently distinguished as
" sensuous attention."

Lastly, we have, through the action of associated feel- Feelings of
ings and co-ordinated motions, the power to spontaneously, and "end."
but unconsciously and automatically, employ what are prac- /, -
tically " means to an end," quite apart from an intellectual
I recognition of either " means " or " end " as such. This
! kind of action is brought about mainly by the association
I of feelings, but partly by that fnnate tendency to imitation
before noticed. It is by the habitual association of feelings
that, without a moment's thought, we take- the simplest
means to obtain ends— sucti, for example, as tlie quicken-
ing of our pace to overtake..a.iilen.d walking in front of us^^ "
or jumping up a bank to pluck a flovYer .otherwise above
[^itisas;ll- The sight of some simple means employed by
[their seniors, may lead children, by mere imitation and
without reflection, to employ the same means themselves ;
and such actions may readily become automatically
habitual if the result attained is agreeable and capable
of frequent repetition. The employment of means for
ends, apart from the exercise of the intellect, is sometimes
exhibited by somnambulists. Thus, a sleep-walker may
open a drawer to take out of it some desired object therein
contained, or may turn a key to unlock a door, and so
obtain entrance into some locality sought after. Such
actions are easily explicable through the habitual asso-
ciations of sensations with co-ordinated movements. For
the sensorium of the sleep-walker has presented to it
various groups of sensations, such as those produced by
the walls and furniture of the room the sleep-walker is
traversing on his way to the desired locality, the door of
which is locked. The sensations thus excited arouse his
imagination of the inside of the desired locality, this in j
turn excites the nervous channels habitually stimulated

/200^y ON TRUTH.

. in overcoming the intervening obstruction ; the hand auto-
matically seeks the key ; the feelings produced by its
'. touch stimulates the muscles of the arm ; the key is turned,

Iand the door opened ! Very complex movements of the
kind are sometimes automatically performed in order to
complete a hannony wJiich the imagination craves. It craves
for fresh, completing sensations, and is thus led to perform
appropriate movements, when certain initial sensations
have been afresh excited, after which the completing
sensations have (in past experience) habitually followed.

(This, then, is the practical imagination of means to effect
a desired end, without any intellectual apprehension of
either end or means. Let a certain set of initial sensa-
tions {a, b, c) have been habitually followed in past expe-
rience by certain other sensations (/, m, n), which latter are
intimately connected with certain movements (A, /u, v).
Then upon the actual recurrence of the sensations a, b, c,
the imagination of the associated sensations /, in, n, will
give rise to such a craving for the repetition of the latter,
that the movements requisite to effect it (namely, A, fi, v)
will be performed automatically, so as to bring about the
repetition craved, and complete the sensational harmony
thus vaguely and unconsciously desired.

Such are the wonderful felt and unfelt various vital
powers and lower mental powers with which our nature |
*■'. i is endowed — powers beside, and more or less apart from, '
y4- i the intellect, for they may be exhibited by persons who
y ^. are either permanently devoid of intellect, or in whom it is
temporarily dormant.

They may be enumerated as follows : —

(i) Powers of growth, repair, and reproduction.

(2) A power of motion.

(3) A power of being impressed by unfelt stimuli.

(4) A power of responding to such impressions by
appropriate movements — -refiuw tiwhrni.

(5) A power of persistently reproducing a modification
once induced by the environment — orgaiiicj'eniJiii^^gjijij^

(6) A power of correspondence with new conditions —
adaptation.^

* See above, p. 169. " t See above, loc. cit.

OUR LOWER MENTAL POWERS.

'OIv^

^

(7) A power oi feeling.

(8) A power of special sensation in appropriate sense
organs.

'- ''/-^Sl. -^ power of synthesizing feelings — consentience.

' (10) A power of responding automatically to felt

stimuli — excito-niotor actions.

(11) A power of forming habits.

(12) A power of performing in^f.inr.tive actions.

(13) A power oi e^'gevxo.ncxng pleasure and pain.
(14J A power oi sensuous memory.

(15) A power of reproducing past feelings, and so (orva-
ing p/iantasmata or mental images.

(16) A power of associating such mental images in
groups, and groups of groups — imagination.

( 1 7) Passions and desires.

(18) Sensuous emotions.

(19) A power of associating past feelings, imaginations,)
and emotions — sensuous association.

(20) A power of grouping clusters of present sensations
and associating imaginations therewith — sense perceptions
or sensuous knozuledge, and automatic classification.

8 (21) A power, with an expectant feeling, of reviving
I past imaginations on the occurrence of sense perceptions
Xz—prmiiic. inference. ""*"

' (22) Feelings relating to causation. }

(23) Feelings of activity and passivity, of self and
not-self, and of difference.

(24) Feelings related to succession, extension, position,
shape, size, number, and motions.

(25) Feelings relating to surprise, doubt, agreement
and disagreement, pleasurable satisfaction from conduct.

(26) A tendency to imitation.

(27) A feeling oi preferential taste.

(28) Emotional language.

(29) Sensuous attention.

(30) Feelings of means and ends.

(31) A power of synthesizing impulses into one
[dominant impulse — organic volition.

(32) A power of synthesizing motions into one complex
general action to carry out an organic volition.*

* See above, p. 157.

202 ON TRUTH.

We shall in the next chapter proceed to consider our
higher mental powers or faculties ; but a few remarks

; may here be made in anticipation. It is the common

usage to speak of our distinct " faculties," and, to a certain

extent, the practice is a good one, though it may mislead.

; It is manifest that the mind performs a multitude of acts

fV ; which more or less differ from and resemble one another ;

iJ^ I and these acts may be grouped together according to the

•. 'i A likenesses and differences which exist between them.

f Thus, for example, acts of "-jjidgiiig ' may be grouped

[ together in one class, and acts of " willing " in another.

I Now, as the mind which performs these acts has, of course,
the power of performing them, we may reasonably speak
of these different aspects of its power as the faculty {i.e. the
power) of judging and the faculty (/.^. the power) of willing.
At the same time, these terms may mislead on account of
the necessity we are constantly under of having recourse
to material images to express such things as acts of mind.
It thus comes about that, being familiar wath the different
parts of the body which perform the different bodily acts,
the illusion may be produced that there are analogous
" parts " in our intellect which perform the different mental
acts. But not only have we no evidence whatever of this,
but memory affords us at least prima facie evidence that
it is, on the contrary, an absolute unity which feels, thinks,
and wills now, and which felt, thought, and willed at
various antecedent times^

( 203 )

CHAPTER XV.

OUR HIGHER MENTAL POWERS.

The currect appreciation of the value of the higher mental powers is
a matter of great importance. Through intellectual perception,
with its power of abstraction, we gain the highest universal ideas,
the relations between which are either directly seen by intuition
or gained indirectly by ratiocination. A higher order of mental
affections — intellectual emotions, or sentiments — may be excited
within us, in addition to our sensuous emotions.

Importance of the distt7iction between our higher and our lower
mental faculties — Perception — The idea of'-'' being" — Universals —
_Td^as contrasted with feeliitps — hidp;ment — A bs traction — A bs trac-
tion and judgtnent — ETei'nents of perception and abstraction —
Ideas further contrasted with feelings— Consciousness — Reflection
and attentio7i — Intellectual memory — Intellectual intuitioii —
Reaso7iing, deductive and inductive — Higher emotions or senti-
mejits — Catalogue of higher mental powers.

The last chapter was occupied with a review of our lower importance

r 1 • ofthedis-

mcntal powers; our higher mental faculties next demand /"'c^^vw^v-

, tiveefi OH 7'

our attention. When we have duly considered the \ditttr, higher an u

1111- • • • • 11 ""^ lower

we shall be m a position to appreciate at its true value the 7nentai
fundamental difference which exists between these two
classes of our mental activities — the distinction between
our higher, reflective, self-conscious mental acts (the acts
of our intellectual faculty) and our lower, direct, merely
felt acts (those of our sensitive faculty).

This is probably the most fundamental and the most /
important of all the distinctions to be made in the study f
of mind. It has been most strangely ignored from the time |
of Locke * to our own ; but when its truth becomes gene- 1

* 1632-1704.

2 04 ON TRUTH.

rally recognized, that recognition will occasion nothing less
than a revolution in mental science. The failure to appre-
ciate this distinction is not so much due to an exaggeration of
i our lower faculties, as to a want of apprehension of what is
j really implied in our higher mental powers. Perhaps the
I most remarkable circumstance connected with popular
; modern writers on this subject, is the conspicuous absence in
; them of any manifest comprehension of those very intel-
/ lectual powers they continually exercise, and their apparent
: non-appreciation of that reason to which they so often
appeal. At the beginning of the last chapter it was stated
that the fact of our possessing both " sensations " and " per-
ceptions " was one of the elementary facts of our mental
experience ; as also that these two kinds of mental activity,
typified * the two distinct orders into which our mental
faculties are divisible./
Perception. jj-^ q^^. perception of any external object — such, e.g.., as

a horse — we shall find, if we examine our own minds, that
we acquire, in having that perception, two distinct experi-
ences— (i) the intellectual apprehension of the object per-
ceived, and (2) the sensations, ordinarily unnoticed, which
serve to make the object known to us. This has been
already, perhaps, sufficiently pointed out in the last section, f
where we called attention to the " objective " (or, intellectual)
and the "subjective" (or, sensuous) elements of our know-
ledge,! and to the fact that sensations are only the " means,"
and not the " objects " of perception. In the last chapter also
we endeavoured to make clear the difference between " intel-
lectual" and "sensuous" perception. § Nevertheless, to guard
to the best of our power against the possibility of misunder-
standing, it may be well here once more to review the act
j of perception. When we perceive anything — for example,
a white handkerchief — how do we perceive it ? Through a
' number of impressions which it makes on our senses — such
as the feeling of a white colour, of a certain apparent
shape and size, a certain softness and pliability, a certain
smoothness, and other feelings like those described in the
last chapter as culminating in a " sense-perception." ||

* See above, p. 189. t See above, pp. 89-91.

+ See above, p. 91. § See above, p. 188. 1| See above, p. 189.

OUR HIGHER MENTAL POWERS. 205

Through and by these various feelings (which serve us as
means) we come directly to apprehend the object itself,
i.e. the handkerchief, with all its properties. If a solid
cube, suspended by a string, be turned round in front of us,
we can never see the whole of it at once, and its square
faces, as we see them in perspective, do not look square but
lozenge-shaped. Nevertheless, these imperfect sensible
signs serve perfectly well to give us a true and adequate intel-
I lectual perception of the whole cube as it is in itself. It is

I also most noteworthy that the very act of turning the
cube round, and so changing our successive sensations, not
only does not change our intellectual pereeption (which
remains the same throughout), but our intellectual percep-
tion of the cube as one whole, as it is in itself, is actually

* made clearer and more steady by these very sensuous

\ changes. We evidently more easily perceive its true
character by seeing it all round (owing to its revolving)
than if it were at rest, when we could only see it from one
point of view.

Intellectual perception, then, is a natural and sponta-
neous, unconsciously-made, interpretation of sensible signs
by a special power of our intelligence. But into what does '' *
this natural power interpret the signs given through our
sense-organs by external things? Into some object dis-
tinct from and independent of us — some " thing in itself" In
every such perception we perceive an object of some kind.
It may be we know it as "a horse," or if not that, as "a
quadruped " or as " a living creature " only, or merely as
" a solid body," and if we cannot be sure even of that,
then at least we perceive it to be something.

. / The word " something" is a most f a m i 1 i a r^ ,g,y,p r e.'j.si on , The idi-a
but the idea it enshrines Is a" very wonderful on£_^It is ""^'
Uhe idea of e.vistenee, the idea of bjijig- " Being" is an idea
which, familiar as it is and however much its latent impli-
cations may be unfolded, is itself utterly inexplicable ; for
no one can even ask what "being" or "existence" is, or
what that conception means, without showing, by his very
question, that he himself already both possesses and (to a
certain extent at least) understands it.* The idea of
* See also below, p. 226.

2o6 ON TRUTH.

"being," or "existence," is one which is applicable to every-
thing which can be conceived of by the mind as having any
reality. The other restricted apprehensions or ideas of ob-
jects, just above referred to — "solid body," " living creature,"
" quadruped," " horse " — are all ideas applicable to a greater
or less number of distinct things. Each such conception,
though applicable to a multitude of individuals of the same
kind, is a conception which, considered in itself, is one. It
is a single notion, not of any one subsisting thing, but of a
kind or class of things real or possible. It refers to a
whole group of objects, to each one of which the notion is ■
applicable. It is therefore a general or "■ nniversaV idea. 1
All such ideas are formed by a process of " abstraction^'
which will be noticed a little further on.* An idea of this
latter kind, directly derived, by a natural activity of the
mind, from the contemplation of objects, may be distin-
Univcrsah. guishcd as a "■direct universal^' It is an idea abstracted
from the objects which are included within it — as the idea
" horse " contains and refers to the essential characters
common to all horses. But the consideration of any direct
universal — e.g. the idea "horse " — may give rise to the mental
abstraction of some quality or condition pertaining to the
class of objects denoted by it — as, for example, the idea
" utility " or " domestication," and the idea produced by
this further mental process may be distinguished as a
" true universal!' Our " direct universals " are, no doubt,
gained through the help of those groups of feelings noticed
in the last chapter j as mental images of a generalized
jkind. Such images are doubtless generated in our or-
?ganism., and each such is a unity of its own sort, and may
(by analogy with the above intellectual universals, the
formation of which it facilitates) be distinguished as a
" sensno7is nnivci^sal." But even a direct universal (such, e.g.,
as the idea " horse ") is not a mere collection of sensuous
impressions and feelings such as is a_^^nsupu^ .UBiversalj'^
but is a single intellectual perception of an object, as bein^
of a certain kind, or nature, revealed to us by our power of
abstraction. By it we gain those intellectual ideas to whiclt
certain groups of feelings have, in the last chapter, been

* See below, p. 2H. t See above, p. 191.

OUR HIGHER MENTAL POWERS.

shown to correspond,* such as feelings of activity, passivity,
self, not- self, extension, position, shape, size, number, etc. By
the help of these feelings, our intellect obtains a number of
highly abstract ideas, such as the ideas of being, substance,
activity, passivity, self, not-self, difference, succession, ex-
tension, position, shape, size, number, motion, novelty,
dubiousness, agreement, disagreement, etc., as also those of
cause and effect, truth, goodness, and beauty. The idea of
"being" is the most universal of all universals and the
most abstract of all abstractions, and it serves particularly
well to show the profound difference between an idea —
that is, an intellectual perception, or perception of our
higher mental nature — and a mere sense perception.

The_contrast, the difference of kind, which exists be- AiU^.
tween an idea and all those varieties of feelings and groups /.''vV/vi
V-'' I of feelings which we have successively passed in review in
the last chapter, is very great. " Feelings," whether single
; or in groups of groups, are all modifications of our sensi-
tivity, and cannot be reflected upon, or recognized as exist-
ing, by the faculty (sensitivity) which elicits them. But
ideas can be reflected upon, and recognized, by the faculty
(the intellect) which elicits them, as existing now ; as having,
■ or not having, existed in the past ; and as possibly or cer-
tainly existing, or not existing, in the future. " Feelings "
may associate to form " sensuous universals," serving to ff
guide our consentience automatically. But " ideas " are "^
direct or true universals, serving to guide us not blindly,
but consciously and intelligently. " Sense perceptions "
are groups of associated feelings, but "ideas" are appre- ^r.
hensions of objective qualities grouped round an objective \^
\ uhrty about which various judgments may be formed. The
1 former are but reinstatements of sense, the latter are unities
1 abstracted from sense. There are, indeed, as we have said,
! feelings of self-activity and passivity, of power exerted by
us and upon us, etc., but we have no feeling of the active
nature of our activity, or that our passivity is passive, or of
power neither exerted by us nor upon us, etc. Similarly as
to those of our feelings which relate to succession, exten-
sion, position, shape, size, number, motion, etc., we have

* See above, pp. 1 89- 193.

Q^,

hoSL. ON TRUTH.

those feelings indeed, but no feeling of our having such

I feelings ; recognition of that kind is an intellectual act, an
act of knowledge, and no mere feeling. It is quite other-
wise with our ideas, each of which may be perceived and
recognized as being the sort of idea it is. It has been
affirmed, indeed, that the only real difference between
feelings of passivity, motion, resistance, etc., and ideas of
passivity, motion, resistance, etc., is due to our mental use
of words in the case of our ideas and to their non-use in
our feelings. This objection will be met in the next \
chapter, and shown to be untenable,* because intellectual I
perceptions and ideas precede the use of words, and there- '■
fore cannot possibly be due to the latter. «

In all those states of our unconscious and merely^on-

^ssniient .^activity — habitual actions, sleep-walking, g,tc.:=^-

which were notedTfiTlie' last chapter, there is no recognition

of external objects as being external objects. Each object

"excites its own impressions on us, and these impressions

elicit corresponding appropriate actions on our part, and

similar causes (similar excitations) produce in us similar

effects (similar actions). But the mind, in this condition,

in spite of its effective action on our motor powers, does not

apprehend that the objects thus practically recognized by

our organism as alike, really belong to one kind or class of

existences. It automatically and, as it were, mechanically

sorts them, but is not aware of the nature of the groups of ^

objects thus sorted.f They are not what is called "for-|

mally " sorted and recognized, but only " materially " so.J I

The profound and essential difference between (i) an

^^ idea and (2) a feeling or group of feelings is, as we just

^y X observed, particularly conspicuous with respect to ourideai

j'/ of " being" or "existence." That idea is so fundamental^

\/ I • • ' I Ti I iffl 1.1, «j.,i I I 1 ii—ii <tirniii)im,t^, I

ip that it is applicable to everything, while, if we have it not, )

nothing can be apprehended or understood. It is applic- /
able both to the subject {i.e. the mind which thinks) and to
the object thought about ; for it is clear that both of these
are and must be " beings " of some kind. Yet no sensation

* See below, " Roots and the Origin of Language," p. 232.
t See above, p. 192.

X For another example of the use of these terms, see chap, xvii., "Objec-
tivity of Truth."

w

OUR HIGHER MENTAL POWERS. 209/^

or group of feelings, however complex, could give us a

feeling of " being," because though there are special groups

of feelings corresponding with our self-activity, and special

groups of feelings corresponding with our passivity and the

I action of external things on us, there neither is nor can be

' any kind of feeling embracing all other feelings, as the idea

; of " being " embraces all other ideas. There neither is nor

can be any one feeling common to all other feelings ; and

yet if there was a feeling of " being " at all, it must be of

this universality of nature, while at the same time it must

■ be a distinguishable feeling. Nevertheless, though we have

^_no_^£//;/^ of " being," the idea~^'^(t\x\^" lies at the very

^_roqt__o£all our conceptions. As long as we think at all,

we must possess it ; while if exists at the very beginning

I of our intellectual life. This supreme and most abstract

I idea arises spontaneously in the mind of the little child

I who lisps, " What is that thing, mother ? " It may, indeed,

often be clearly perceived to have so arisen even before a

child has acquired the power to speak.

It is nevertheless quite true, as was before pointed out,*
that we cannot have any of the ideas or notions which
perception or reflection give us, without first having
corresponding sense-impressions, imaginations, or sense-
perceptions to act as their basis and support. That such
antecedents are necessary, is a simple fact of observation.
They are amongst the results which spring from our bodily
organization. Our minds are first of all aroused to activity
by the action of surrounding bodies on our sense-organs and
sensitivity, and afterwards by the play of our imagination ;
and throughout life some play of the imagination is a
necessary accompaniment of all our intellectual activity.
But to suppose that an idea is an imagination, because it
cannot exist in ourmirtd" vvifTiout the presence of one or
more imaginations which may serve to support it, would }JS)
be as absurd as to suppose that wine and the bottle which i ^
contains it are the same, because the fluid cannot be kept
together except by means of some vessel, which may serve
to hold it. One wonderful difl"erencc between our sensitive
power and our intellectual faculty is, that the latter has by

* See above, pp. 87, 8S.

i

i2IO^- ON TRUTH.

\ its exercise the power of acquiring an enormous multitude
I of new ideas, while the number of possible sensations and
I new groups of sensations remains very limited in compari-
f son. In every perception which we experience, there are.

- we must once rhore insist, two constituent factors : r^^he
\ sensuous, 'luhj'^'^ti'i'y fjiirtCLC^v^i'^h is a product of our lower
mental faculty of sensitivity, and which is made up of the
feelings excited by an object, together with the various
groups of reminiscences and emotions connected therewith ;
(o^ fi-if. ijlj-^]]p^;;|-^]^i^j^vj^f;w/^ factor, which is a product of
our higher mental facuTty*of*inteTI^tual intuition,* and is
an apprehension of the object as it really exists in itself,
apart from those sensations, reminiscences, and emotions
which have enabled us to elicit that apprehension.

With respect to the fundamental distinctness which exists
between ideas and mere groups of feelings, it has been, further,
before pointed out f that through feelings we can " both per-
ceive and conceive things that never were and never can be
imagined ;" that such feelings serve to make objects "directly
present to our intellect ; " % that perception is neither a
process of conscious nor unconscious inference,§ and that
it is certified for us by attention.! It has also been shown
that everyperception, far from being a mere plexus, or
amalgam of feelings, contains implicitly the idjpas of .", exist-
ence," " distinctjgll,',^j^silJli,lar^ty/'-."-JUJQrtY^^^^^ truth ; " ^
and that the fact of the feelings, which give rise to a percep-
tion being able to persist side by side with the perception
they have elicited, shows that the latter {i.e. the perception)
must be something new and different from the former ,
{i.e. the feelings).** The distinctness in nature of intellec-
tual perceptions, or ideas, has been illustrated ff by the
ideas " experience," " seeing," and " nonentity." The fun-
damental distinction which exists between our powers of
imagination and conception has also been insisted onX%
and the necessary supremacy of thought over feelings,
as an ultimate court of appeal and supreme criterion
pointed out.§§ Finally, it has been demonstrated |||| that a

* See above, p. 113. t See p. 89. % See p. 91.

§ See p. 92. II See p. 95. f See p. 103.

** Seep. 105. ft See pp. 109, no. jj Seep. in.

§§ Seep. 113. nil Seep. 102.

OUR HIGHER MENTAL POWERS. 211

greater degree of vividness is by no means (as it has so
often been asserted to be) the distinguishing character
between sensations and ideas.

But the intellectual, objective constituent factor of our
perceptions is itself twofold.* We may distinguish two
i distinct notions, or modes of apprehension, in it. On the X
\ one hand, it apprehends what kind of thing the object
r perceived may be — its " thatness," so to speak. On the v^
other hand, it apprehends the actual subsistence of the
thing perceived. Perception, then, is the apprehension of
the subsistence of a thing the nature of which is revealed to
us through the feelings we experience in connection with
it, and is an implicit act of judgment that the thing
perceived is of some definite kind. From this we may
rapidly pass to an explicit and formal, dtWh&rdiie j?idg)ue]it /ud^nent.
that such is really the case, and the examination of this
second act will serve to bring out yet more plainly the
difference of kind which exists between "feelings" and
" ideas," and therefore between our lower and our higher
mental powers. A judgment is a mental affirmation which
follows upon, and is the consequence of, antecedent per-
ceptions.

Every object which we perceive, possesses a number
of different qualities — shape, size, colour, hardness, etc. —
and acts on our sensitivity accordingly. Its qualities (at
least, some of them) affect us simultaneously with our per-
ception of the object which possesses them. But the act by
which we perceive them is different from that by which we
perceive the object as one whole. Perception is the
acquisition of one idea through a multitude of sensations ;
but an explicit judgment involves, first, the ideal separation,
and then the ideal union of the qualities of the object 1
about which we judge, as will directly appear. Our \
attention may be directed to various qualities according
to the different circumstances of each case, and then these
qualities may be distinctly and expressly recognized as
really being qualities of the object observed.

The power by which we thus ideally separate qualities. Abstraction.

{

I desire here to call attention to M. de Broglie's excellent work, " Lc
Positivism et la science experimentale," to which I am greatly indebted.

/#

212 ON TRUTH.

is the power of abstraction, and by it our mind isolates (in
order to apprehend them distinctly) the various qualities
and conditions which really exist in the concrete object
perceived and can, of course, be only separated from that
object ideally. No sooner has any object — such, for
example, as an oak-tree — been perceived by us as a distinct
subsisting reality, than it undergoes this singular transfor-
mation in our minds. The various qualities which, in
truth, are intimately united in and with the real, substantial
•/f i oak-tree, are ideally detached from it, and isolated in our
minds, and regarded in themselves — not, of course, that we
make the absurd mistake of thinking they can exist by
themselves. Thus, in the initial stage of a judgment, such
as, " That is an oak" its various qualities, such as " solidity,"
" branching shape," " vegetable nature," etc., are abstracted
by our minds, and so the abstract idea, " an oak," is dis-
tinctly apprehended by the help of a number of subordi-
nate abstract ideas. They are called " abstract " because
they are thus "abstracted" by the mind — in which they
only exist ideally — from the object, in which alone they
exist really. What are the various qualities of any object
— its shape, size, colour, etc. ? They are in reality so many /
states or conditions of one actual, really-subsisting, material
thing. But they also have an ideal existence, as so many 1
i abstract ideas, in the mind which apprehends them. Let_u§
Jioj:.a._moment cpxisider.the ■" branching shape" of the oak,
as it exists in reality, apart from any mental act of abstrac-
tion, and as it exists ideally after the act of abstraction. In
reality, it exists as one of the qualities and aspects of tJiat
one'y-farticnlar, individual oak, a quality actually united
indissolubly with it, and not existing at all except in that
one particular oak-tree. Ideally, as an_ abslract \<^e.j^„ it \^
eneralcoii£e£tion, applicable not only to all oaks, but
er branching things also — it is a " true universal." *
ne very important, primary, and fundamental abstrac-
tion is that which we have already glanced at. In order
to be able to think, " That object is an oak-tree," we must
(as before said) have the conception of the kind of thing

the object is — " what " it is, or the idea of its " whatness."

• •• ■»■■«■ «^

* See above, p. 206.

Ill

y

OUR HIGHER MENTAL POWERS. 213

At the same time our intention is not to mentally affirm
that a kind exists, but that a real concrete tiling of a certain
kind exists ; and this is a uniting together of the idea of a
" whatness " with the idea of a " real existence." We must,
therefore, have mentally separated the idea of the oak-tree
as an oak-tree, from that of the concrete existence, or
subsistence, of that concrete material thing — for obviously
we could not mentally unite together in the mind what did
not exist separately therein.

This process of mental abstraction is a necessary result
of our nature. In the presence of any object apprehended
by us, it is actually impossible for us not to apprehend
some or other of its qualities. As soon as we begin to
use our reason, as soon as we ask ourselves what anything
is, and try to have any clear and distinct notion about it,
we are compelled thus to ideally, or mentally, separate
its qualities by abstraction. But we cannot, by mere
abstraction, form any judgment. In order to do that, ;
there must be a second and reverse process — a putting \
ideally together again what has just been ideally separated. \
For during our process of abstraction we do not cease *
to feel the object acting on our sensitivity — or we remem-
ber it in our imagination — and our mind has never lost
sight of the real unity — the concrete identity — of the oak-
tree, the qualities of which we have mentally (ideally)
abstracted. For the intellect (which, being conscious,
knows what it does), when it has analyzed the oak it has
perceived, into its ideal elements, immediately recognizes
the real unity and concrete identity existing between the
qualities it has ideally abstracted and the object whence it
has abstracted them. It is the expression of this percep- )
tion of unity, together with abstraction, which constitutes /
the explicit judgments

Thus a judgment completes by union, or synthqsis,^ a
process which it began by separation, or analysis. The
^intellect, by its judgment, " That is an oak," tte^ares,
virtually, that its abstraction has only been ideal, and that
the elements Avhich it has ideally separated exist, in fact,
united in the really subsisting concrete oak-tree. Thus Abstraction
for every judgment, expressing even the very simplest Vncn't! ^'

214/y ON TRUTH.

affirmation, three mental acts are necessary: (i) a percep-
tion, or the apprehension of some object througli a union,
or synthesis of feelings, produced by the qualities of that
object ; (2') .a mental analysis, or ideal separation by ab-
straction, of the qualities of the object ; and (3) a mental
synthesis of these abstracted qualities with tlie object.
Judgments are amongst the elementary acts of the human
intelligence, which cannot exist without them. The human \
intellect, therefore, is an intelligence which necessarily j
proceeds by an alternate process of union or " synthesis,"
and of separation or " analysis." It is an active principle .
which operates by alternately uniting and dividing. This I
complicated process is necessary because, in order that '
we may understand any object, it needs to be, as it were,
first digested by our mind, in order that it may be assimi-
lated— just as our bodily food cannot be assimilated without
first being digested. In this process it is abstraction which
plays the part of a mental gastric juice, ideally separating
the qualities of every object, and so making them clear
and luminous to us. A moment's consideration will suffice
to show how much better such qualities as " solidity,"
" branching shape," etc., can be apprehended after they
have been thus abstracted and distinctly regarded, than
when they were apprehended confusedly and indistinctly
in one lump, in our first act of perception of the object
whence they were afterwards abstracted. This complex
process, which it takes so long to describe, is performed by
the mind with unimaginable rapidity — the rapidity of
thought ! It is all done while we form the conception,
" That is an oak."

That we should do all this without being aware of it may
seem strange. Yet it need not appear so. How many
persons say '' b" without ever thinking, or even knowing,
that in order to utter it they must, if the mouth be open,
first close and then reopen the lips ! But how inexpressibly
more subtle and imperceptible is a mental act, than are
such conspicuous muscular movements as those of the lips !
It may be well here to say a {q.^^ words to guard
f!:""cpuo,f against a by no means impossible error. In perception, a

/Xl"'^''"'''^" variety of elements are united, and elicit the'idea of a dis-

w

OUR HIGHER MENTAL POWERS.

tinct object. In abstraction, we resolve the notion of a

perceived object into a number of elements. It might,

* "then, be supposed that the elements into which any notion

lis resolved by abstraction are those very same elements

/through which that notion had previously been gained.

/ In other words, it might be supposed that " abstraction "

/ was some sort of return towards the condition which

I existed in us the moment before " perception." But to

suppose this would be to make a great mistake. Tji^

element^, wJiichL.jiiJnister to perception ^j:3_seiisible elements

-feelings of various kinds excited in us by the object

perceived.,, .Xhey-^.i'e-.n'iqdifications oFbur organs of

and affections of our scnsitivit)'. ^"h^^ i]inriiiifif'^^^-"^'^^V
individual and subjective. TJic elements ..-v^liich^are sepa-.
Xated by abstractipii d^&Jdcal elements..-— Xi^.^y ^^5:,^1??J:£.^5,^

___^eneral ideas, and are essentially universal and nhjec^iiyg.^
That we may see this clearl)-, let us consider an example
in point, e.g. the elements of either kind related to our per
aepU©«-a£..t]l£^05Lk;;i£ge^ We experience in its presence,
feelings of colour, of limitation of coloured surfaces, perhaps
a feeling of rustling sound, with corresponding feelings of
moving patches of colour, as the twigs and leaves sway to
and fro in the wind. If we go close, we may have also
feelings of rough contact and pressure, and of muscular
movements and inter-relations of our bodily parts corre-
sponding with groups of branches and twigs. Each such
feeling is an individual feeling then and there present, which
may be accompanied with revivals in the imagination of
kindred feelings formerly experienced. Such are the
elements which elicit the perception. That perception
itself once attained, the idea of the oak may then be
analyzed by abstraction into the abstract ideas — solidity,
vitality, branching shape, vegetable nature, oak nature,
acorn-producing organism, ship-building substance, past aid
to the greatness of our nation, etc. Every one of these
ideas is a universal notion, and is applicable to a multitude
of individual objects besides the one perceived, and is seen
to be applicable to objects of the kind which have existed
in the past, or which may exist in the future.

Moreover, in many instances, abstract ideas by no /

Ideas
further
contrasted
■with feel-
ings.

k

v.

\

ON TRUTH.

means correspond with the sensible signs which have
served to eHcit them. ThuSj for example, the one abstract
idea, "jciLO.ticui^Lina^_be apprehended through a number of
ver^ d iijjci'en t-, sensible signs, such as (i) the travelling of
the image of an object over our field of vision; (2) a
feeling of anything slipping over the skin ; (3) by muscular
feelings and feelings of tension in our eyeballs as we follow
with our eyes an object in motion ; (4) by sensations of
touch which we may receive from a moving object while
we grasp it, etc. Yet the resulting idea, " motion," is one
and the same idea, however differently it may be called
forth.* But not only may a multitude of different sensible
signs minister to and serve to elicit one and the same idea,
but also the very same set of sensible signs may minister
to and serve to elicit a variety of very different ideas.
Thus the sight of a single photograph of the Queen may
give rise (i) to the idea of her Majesty herself; (2) to
the idea of royal rank ; (3) to the idea of a woman ; (4)
to the idea of a human being ; (5) to the idea of likeness ;
(6) to the idea of chemical action ; (7) to the idea of the
sun's actinic power ; (8) to the idea of the effect of light
and shade ; (9) to the idea of paper ; (10) to the idea of
an inanimate object; (11) to the idea of substance; and
finally (12) to the idea of "being" or "existence."

Again, feelings, as before said, can never be reflective.
They can never reflect on feelings. We may have, as has
been pointed out, feelings of self-activity, passivity, etc. ;
but not of any one feeling being of the kind it is. It is
quite otherwise with our ideas ; not only may an .ideal
abstract quality be made a direct object of thought, and
be, as it w^ere, held up opposite the mind for examination ;
^uj;.]^e Jdif?*!, i-Uel£,,,inay^ be ^ P-erceived. and^ recognized as
being whatever sort of idea it may happen to be. More-
over, the very intensity of the action of sensation (as with
a very dazzling light or deafening sound) may make sensc-
perception impossible ; but no amount of intensity of the
iction of the understanding, no amount of vividness in an
idea, will mar intellectzial perception. IjMs„jm.possible„J[i2l'
ideas to be tQO_9^,e,ar^and distinct^

* See also above, p. 106.

/

ll

OUR HIGHER MENTAL POWERS. f 2 I 7^ ,

No efforts of our imagination, moreover, can ever exceed |
sensuous experience. We can never imagine what we have
not felt in itself or in its elements ; but it is quite otherwise
with ideas, as we have before seen with respect to " experi-
ence," " seeing," * etc. We can not only conceive of, but
we know perfectly well, both our power and our act of sight.
Yet that act itself was never felt, and cannot therefore be
imagined.
I Feelings become associated according as they have

I been before felt most frequently in succession ; but ideas
I may become associated together according to their rational
I relations — their logical dependence one on another. Thus
\tl^ thought of "Ireland" or of "disunion," may be asso-
»ciated in our minds with the ideas of the humour of
Daniel O'Connell, or of the timbre of Mr. Gladstone's
voice.

There is yet another contrast between feeling and
thought. All ifeelings are the direct result of the engrgy y
of organs of sense, and are necessarily limited by the J L
nature and capacities of those organs. But the intellect
not only has no known organ, but, for reasons wKicTTwHl
appear later on,t cannot have one. Nevertheless, some
action of the organism is necessary for thought — namely,
such action as is required to elicit those mental images
without which thought, as we experience it, cannot exist.
Therefore such action is indirectly necessary for the highest
acts of our intellect. But this action is not necessary for
the action of the intellect as intellect, but only for those
material concomitants (words, images, or other symbols)
which the mind needs for its activity here and now.
The. action of the organism is, however, necessary for
feeling, rtJi- feeling. It is no wonder, then, that the relatively
defective nature of "feeling" and its impotence to make
any declaration about truth, does not occasion a similar
inadequacy and impotence with respect to " thought ; "
since " feeling " is itself the energy of a material organ,
which " thought," in itself, is not. The intellect declares 1
that its own declarations as to universal, necessary, and |
self-evident truths, are absolutely true declarations ; but I

* See above, p. 109. t See below, chap. xxv.

71CSS.

2l8yj, ON TRUTH.

sense is altogether silent about truth and about the value
of its own deliverances.

feSuch, then, is the fuiidamental difference of kind
;ween our "feelings" and our "ideas" — between our
/or and our higher mental faculties. This distinction,
* which is really one of the most important in the whole
study of mind and of man, is almost always entirely passed
over and ignored. It is on this account that we have
insisted on its characteristics with much, we hope pardon-
able, reiterations
Conscious- Having now finally considered this fundamental differ-

ence between " feelings " and " ideas," w^e may proceed
to advert to "consciousness," which is at the foundation
of our whole intellectual life, as the parallel affection of
our lower mental nature, " consentience/' * is at the
foundation of our whole sensuous life.

^Consciousness is, for each of us, both an ultimate fact
and an ultimate. abstract truth^_.^As_an_uUirrmte_Ja£
I that actual concrete knowledge of our present_exi£t^"*^*^
i (in whatever state it may be) which we all have in our
\ waking life, and our certain knowledge and perception
of which no sceptic ever ventures to dispute — as was
//^ pointed out in the beginning of the work.f It is a fact
which, like all ultimate facts, is necessarily quite inex-
plicable. We know that we are conscious as a fact, but
how that fact comes about, is as inexplicable as is our
knowledge of primary universal truths % or of external
things and their qualities. §

^^^. As an abstract,, trytlj, consciousness is the ideal per-
ception the mind gains and abstracts from that intimately
known concrete fact, its own actual present existence.
Abstract consciousness is, of course, only an idea, and has
no real existence except in the actual, concrete, living
consciousness of an individual, conscious being.

Consciousness^ though existing at each instant, is in^^ |V/
its very essence continuous, and conscious of its . Q\vj3iJ- Y^
persistence. We each of us know and are conscious notf
"onT}' that we are doing what we are doing {e.g. the reader,

* As to this, see above, p. 183. + See above, p. 17.

X See p. 44. § See p. 89.

OUR HIGHER MENTAL POWERS. 219

reading this page), but also that we began to do it, and
were doing something else before we so began. The !
_sup,p[flsitio4i that consciousness could be cp;3jpQsed.oil.3a!*._^.
aggregate of separate " states 'l,,oL,S2SI.Si£':l?J^^s^' ^^ ^'^ ' -
abjujaiky. Such separate " states," if each be aware only of \
itself, could not constitute that kind of consciousness which 1
we know we have ; and which is aware of itself as a unity, |
and also of the successive series of states through which it :
has passed. But if any separate " state " be supposed to be
aware of other states of consciousness, then there is just as
much mystery and difficulty in understanding that "state,"
as in understanding a persistent consciousness ; so that the
hypothesis of consciousness, being nothing but an aggregate
of " states," becomes not only an absurdity, but an utterly
/y' gratuitous absurdity. Consciousness,. tlien, is essentially a
""' persistent intelligence which, as a fixed point, reviews the
1y\ procession of events, and recognizes them as severally
belonging either to the order of ideas or to that of actual,
real existences. We can now have no difficulty in recog-
nizing the certainty that we may be conscious, not only
that we can think of an ideal horse, but also that we
can perceive a real one ; if, that is, we have, in Section II.,
successfully disposed of the delusions of idealism.
; Consentience, like all the other feehngs, cannot reflect
T on itself ; but this, of course, consciousness most frequently
i [does, and it can and does recognize itself for what it is.
^~'i-jCons_ciousness_.also cannot,.. . like.- .s.ensitivity, be paralyzed
'^\hy its_owQ_gflg,rgy. We do not cease to be conscious
Y through the clearness and distinctness of our perception of
Aour own being.

We have more than once pointed out how feelings ^fejiection

... .- , tiud atten-

Cdinnot reflect upon themselves, though it is manifest that Wv^.

we can direct our attention upon both our feelings and our I

thoughts, and reflect about them. This power of reflection |

(which was specially noticed in the first chapter *) is, then, '

one of our higher mental powers, as also is that of voluntary

attention — as distinguished from that merely sensuous

attention to which we adverted in the last chapter.f

Conscious reflection and attention also accompany and

* See above, p. S. t See above, p. 19S.

2 20 ON TRUTH.

Intellectual scrvc the ncxt higher mental power we would here call

memory. ^ i • 17 7 t-'I •

the reader's attention to, namely, intellectual meinory. 1 his
faculty we have already treated of in the second chapter,*
where we showed the distinction between its two forms,
which were distinguished respectively as f " recollections "
and " reminiscences," while the distinctness of merely
sensuous, memory was pointed out in the last chapter. \
Although we are said, in popular parlance, to " recollect "
anything we have so long been in the habit of doing that
we can do it automatically, yet unless the mind recognizes
the past as past, it cannot be said to be a true act of
memory.
intciuctna^ Ncxt amougst our higher mental faculties may be
enumerated that by which we apprehend absolute, uni-
versal, necessary truths, such as those treated of in the
fourtli' chapter, § namely, the "law of contradiction," || the
\ axiom about equality, 1[ the idea of cause and the law
\ of causation,** the conception of the highly abstract idea,
" Power or force," ft etc. It is this faculty which, in its
^ form of consciousness, recognizes the certainty of our own
U , existence, and is the ultimate criterion ^t of ^11 truth and
' 'f/ certainty, and of the evidence of what is evidently true —
whether it be a general truth, a particular fact, or the
force of a logical argument. Our sense-knowledge, as
we have seen,§§ is limited by our organization. Not so
our intellectual intuition, which tells us, if it tells us
anything, that the law of contradiction must be absolutely
and universally true.|||| To doubt, then, that our intel-
lectual intuition can give us certain and absolute know-
ledge, logically entails the mental paralysis of complete
scepticism.
Reasonmg, I Two Other of our higher faculties are two powers of

deductive \ , ° ■*■

a72af/«flr?<c- [ reasoning, or of true, that is, intellectual, inference. One

tive. I . .

I of these is the faculty of intellectual analysis, deduction,

land ratiocination, which formed the subject of our fifth

' chapter. 1[*T1 It is the faculty by which we apprehend the

force of the idea expressed by the word " tjiergfore " —

* See p. 29. t See p. 31. % See p. 1S6.

§ See p. 38. II See p. 39. \ See p. 46.

** See p. 48. tt See p. 50. W See p. 113.

§§ See p. 182. 1111 See p. 42. It See p. 53.

OUR HIGHER MENTAL POWERS. 22 1

a term we use to denote the certainty which we feel about
an)'thing in and because its certainty is involved in that
of some facts or principles previously known. It is also
the faculty by which we dissect ideas and find within
them, and explicitly recognize, what before was therein
latent and only implicitly contained* — as when we analyze
the word "merit," and find that it contains and implies
the idea of something well done, and the idea of an
action not done under compulsion ; for no such action can

I have " merit." The second reasoning faculty is that of
inteilectiial synthesis or indiiction, by which we unite ideas
gained from different perceptions, and so give rise to the
'perception of a new truth — as when, by the study of many
fossils and geological formations, we recognize the truth
that the earth was inhabited by different animals at
different periods of its history. This, further developed, is
that speculative process of reason which starts hypotheses
and predicts.

We have recognized the existence in ourselves of
appetites and desires,! feelings of pleasure and pain,| and
feelings of^a taste for certain attractions, § some or all of
which may co-operate in exciting our merely sensuous
emotions, ij

When our spontaneous feelings of taste are acted upon. Higher

; , , . . . . emotions

\ and the object attractmg us is recognized as really pos- orscnti-
\ sessing claims on our admiration, such mere feeling has
I then elicited an intellectual perception of "beauty" of some
I kind — a matter which will engage our attention later
I on 1[ — together with our perceptions of " goodness " and
I "truth."

Apart, however, from such perceptions, we would here
advert to the pleasurable or painful feelings which may
accompany them, and also accompany other actions of
the higher mental faculties. Feelings thus called forth \
constitute our higher, or truly intellectual, emotions, which j
are of the greatest value and importance in human life,
as powerful aids to good conduct and often to just

* See p. 23. t See p. 195. J See p. 181.

§ See p. 197. II See p. 1S6.

1[ See below, chap. xvii.

/#

:M

222 > Oy TRUTH.

judgment* We may find an example of such higher
emotion in the pleasure we sometimes experience on at
last seeing the solution of some difficult problem, and
a pleasurable sentiment often attends the attainment of
truth. Emotions produced by the perception of musical
harmony of the highest kind, by beautiful scenery, or some
ruin full of historic memories, and the reverence which
may be excited in us by seeing a person whose character
we hold in the highest esteem, are all examples of affec-
tions of our higher mental faculties — \\\\.QW.Q.cX.\X2i\ sentiments .
One very important higher emotion is that which is called
forth by our perception of the moral worth of any action
we may contemplate or perform (as on witnessing some
act of exemplary kindness or of heroically generous self-
denial), and which sentiment is to be distinguished as the
I moral sense. It has for its material basiji that feeling of
' p!easurat)le satisfaction from~conduct before referred to.f
How little these higher sentiments have to do with our
lower, merely sensuous, feelings, a very slight introspection
may suffice to assure us. We have carefully pointed out |
in the last chapter that our feelings spontaneously express (
themselves by a language of the emotions ; but we have \
also, as everybody knows, a power of speech whereby we ':
express our ideas. It is a fundamentally difTerent power, f
but the question requires to be treated separately, and its \
consideration will occupy our next chapter. |

(Finally, we have a power of will, fundamentally different
from that organic, volition before described ; % although
a certain exercise of will attends every act of perception
and judgment, as does also some feeling or sentiment, and
some feeling or sentiment as well as some intellectual
perception attends every act of volition. § This power of
volition, however, needs a chapter to itself. Nevertheless
f we will, by anticipation, include it (with the other higher

1^ faculties which have just been declared to need separate
J treatment) in the following list of our higher mental powers.
^ These powers may be said to be —

* This will be further explained in Sect. V. chap. xxvi.
t See above, p. 194. J See above, p. 198.

§ This fact will be more fully pointed out in chap. xxvi.

I

OUR HIGHER MENTAL POWERS.

\^- (i) As the foundation of all, a power of apprehending Cai-n/r^^K^:

objects as they are in themselves, through the impressions maual
they make on us — intellectual Jierception.

(2) A power ofUii'ectly perceiving our own activity —
self -consciousness.

(3) A power of turning the mind back upon what has
before been directly apprehended — reflection.

(4) A power of actively seeking to recall things to
mind, or of recognizing spontaneously arising reminiscences
as pertaining to the past — intellectualjneniory.

(5) A power of forming abstract ideas, on. "-trae,,uni-
versals," such as those of being, substance, cause, activity,
passivity, self, not-self, difference, succession, extension,

i position, shape, size, number, motion, novelty, dubiousness,
I agreement, disagreement, truth, goodness, beauty, etc. —
I abstraction.

(6) A power of uniting our intellectual apprehensions
into an explicit affirmation or Vi&gdXxoxi— judgment.

(7) A power of combining ideas and observations, and
so giving rise to the perception of new truths — intellectual
syntJiesisjiii^iiuiucii^U.. ~

(8) A power of dissecting i^eas, and so gaining new
truths, apprehending truths as being necessarily involved
in judgments previously made — intellectual analysis and

I deduction, or ratiocination. »-— ~— -

sssg^ji— '■■■ — "

I ■ (9) A power which, though mentioned almost last, is A Tt^
I indeed primary by nature — namely, a^pwer^of appreiieiid- ^
I ing self-eyident truths as such^and as absolutely, positively,
l~and universally necessary — intellectual intuition.

(10) A power of pleasurable or painful excitement on \
the occurrence of certain intellectual apprehensions — higher'
(intellectual) emotions or sentiments.

(11) A power of apprehending highly abstract ideas,
such as being, power, beauty, goodness, and truth.

(12) A power of giving expression to our ideas by
external bodily signs — rationaljgjjguage.

(T1) A^ trr^ P=^''^'' ^^'**"^^ ; that is a power of, on certain
occasions, deliberately electing to act (or to abstain from
acting) either with, or in opposition to, the resultant of
involuntary attractions and repulsions — rational vj)liiion.

?-

2 24 ^^' TRUTH.

CHAPTER XVI.

LANGUAGE.

Intellectual J^'ignagf ''^ a product of thought. It can exist without .
speech, and could never have arisen as a product of articulate i
sounds which did not express abstract ideas. /

The imagination of words or bodily movements necessary for thotight
— Examples of emotional and intellectual language contrasted —
Abstract ideas must coexist with speech — May exist without
speech — Deaf-mtttes — La7iguage a consequence of thought — A
tendency towards language seems innate — Roots, and the question
of the origin of language — Kinds of language — The mental and
the spoken word.

We have already seen * that bodily signs or gestures,
and also both inarticulate and articulate sounds, may be ,
employed to give expression to our feelings or emotions,
apart from our intellectual perceptions, and apart from all 1
intention of affirming, denying, or asking anything. We '
have now to consider language in the ordinary sense of
that word — as a medium for expressing ideas and inten-
tions, asking questions, stating facts, and carrying on
conversation.

In the first place, an examination of our own minds \
shows us, not only that we cannot make known our thoughts /
to others save by the help of bodily signs, but also that we |
ourselves cannot even think without their aid. I do not, \
of course, mean that we cannot think without either speak- |
ing or making gestures, but that we cannot think without \
some imagination, either of words as spoken, heard, or *.
read, or of gestures as seen in reality, or in pictures, or as

* See above, p. 196.

LANGUAGE.

•25^/

felt. It is by the help of imagined words, that we mostly
do our thinking ; we almost always think in words. Never-
theless, we may also think by merely imagining certain
bodily activities, without adverting to the articulate sounds
by which we denote such actions. We may think by the
help of the imagination of such actions as we have actually
seen performed, or as we have felt the performance of,
when we ourselves have been performing them. Never-!
theless, these thoughts of ours, though thus helped by the \
use of imagination, are themselves no mere imaginations.
The idea, for example, of " moving," when thought by the
aid of the imagined motions of ourselves or others, is as
truly an intellectual conception — as abstract, as universal,
as implicitly replete with the ideas of unity, being, and
truth, and the other characters we have before pointed out*
which distinguish ideas from feelings and imaginations — •
as is the same idea when thought out by the help of the
imagined articulate sound conventionally employed to
denote that action.

Nevertheless, since we ordinarily mean, by " language,"
spoken articulate sounds, serving for intellectual intercourse
we will begin by examining some such sounds, selecting
certain concrete examples of very simple intellectual
language, which can be conveniently contrasted with the
mere language of emotion. Let us, then, suppose that two 4i2i2^!ii_\
men are standmg under an oak tree, and that this tree andintd-

h-f 7

begins suddenly to show signs of falling. They will fly tanglage
from the danger, and they may utter cries of alarm, and by -"-'"'•■■'•'•■-/'■
their cries and gestures give rise to sxmpathetic feelings
of^^aiaefoin persons who may happen to be near the spot.
Tn so far as they do no more than this, their language,
whether of voice or gesture, is but that language of emotion
we have already adverted to.f They may, however, cry
out, "That oak is fallincrj " What is the nature of these
sounds ? The words are examples of intellectual language.
They are the embodiment and expression of no mere feel-
ings, but of universal, abstract ideas.

(i) The word oak is, of course, a conventional sign for
the idea " oak," anH is a universal abstract term, applicable,

* See aljove, pp. 207, 216. f See above, p. 196.

2 26/^ ON TRUTH.

over and above the particular oak which is about to fall, to
every other actual or possible oak. It denotes no single
subsisting thing, but a kind or whole class of things.

(2) The word that, is a term which divides and separates
off the one particular falling oak referred to from all others,
and limits and determines the application of the universal
abstract term " oak " to a single concrete example. It
implies an idea of a unity of a different sort from the unity
implied by the word " oak." The latter implies a unity
of nature or kind, which may be present in an indefinite
number of individuals ; but the word '' that," conveys the
idea of an absolutely individual unity which can be present
in nothing but itself.

(3) The word is, denotes the most wonderful, important,
and most abstract of all abstract ideas — the idea of " exist-
ence" or "being." It is an idea* which we must have in
order to perform any intellectual act. It is an idea which,
though not itself at first adverted to, makes all other ideas
intelligible to us, as light, though itself unseen, renders
everything else visible to us.

(4) The word falling, is a term denoting another abstrac-
tion— an abstract " quality " or " state." The idea is one
which is evidently capable of very wide application, namely,
to everything which may fall. Yet the idea itself is one
single idea.

Abstract What is true of this simple sentence is true of all

^o^xilTwith sentences. AlMijuman language (apart from mere emo- 1
speech. tional manifestations) necessarily implies and gives exprcs-;
sion to a number of abstract ideas. It is impossible even^
for the most brutal savage to speak the simplest sentence
without having first formed for himself highly abstract
ideas. Wherever, therefore, language exists, there also
must exist the power and exercise of abstraction. All
our words, except proper names, pronouns, and certain
determinating adjectives and participles, express abstract
ideas. Universal abs"tract terms are made use of sponta-
neously by children as soon as they begin to speak, and
; " quack-quack " and " ^<t&-^Q.& " are just as good abstract
' universal terms as are " duck " and " horse." Children

* See above, p. 205.

LANGUAGE. 227

begin by giving terms very wide meanings, which they
I subsequently learn to restrict. Not uncommonly children
1 call all men " papa " at first, and the child of a friend of
j mine thus gave the word "quack" so wide a meaning
that he included under it not only all birds and insects,
but also liquids, and money which had the French eagle on
one side of it. Professor Preyer, of Jena, tells us of a child
ten months old who used one term to denote both " above "
and " below," and another single word to signify both
" hot " and " cold." He also gives an instance of a girl
fourteen months old who used the term " apple " to denote
/ not only " apple," but every kind of food — food in the
; abstract. He also relates * that a boy thirty-one months
old, when vexed with his plaything, would say, " dummes
di?ig,'^ thus rising at once to the highest of all abstractions
— the idea of " being."
L The faculty of abstraction,- then, na-ust 4>e-._Dossessed bv ^^^^y ^-^"^
[everyone who speaks. But it is also possessed by mQii^A'^c/i.
iwho do not speak. Various kinds and degrees of dumb-
ness may arise from different forms of defective memory
as to words, due to different physical defects of brain-struc-
ture— such defects impairing those powers of feeling and
imagination on the integrity of which the exercise of our
intellectual faculties depends. In such cases intellectual '
action is impaired by defects in parts of the bodily organi- i
zation, the healthy activity of which is a condition prece- \
dent to such intellectual action. But it may be the case 1
that the physical defect is not in such parts, but in others |
the healthy activity of which is requisite for the external
manifestation of conceptions duly formed in the mind.
Persons afflicted with defects in such parts of the brain
(such central part of the speaking apparatus) may have
perfectly clear ideas, but be quite unable to frame and utter
/corresponding expressions. The absence of words does
I not necessarily imply the absence of ideas. Young children
^often plainly indicate that they have meanings, a know-
ledge of which they seek to convey before they can speak.
A friend of mine was much alarmed about his son (who is
now a very clever young man), because he was long unable

* " L'Ame de I'Enfant," pp. 355, 367, 431. Paris : 1SS7.

2 28 ON TRUTH.

to speak, though he showed clearly, by an elaborate lan-
guage of gestures, that he had very distinct intellectual
conceptions. Preyer mentions * having shown a son of his,
unable to speak a word and less than a year old, a stuffed
goose, saying, "bird," upon which the child looked across at
a stuffed owl on the opposite side of the room, thus evidently
connecting the two objects in his mind.
Deaf-mutcs.\ But that idcas may, without the use of speech, be not
.w^ I only conceived, but also distinctly enunciated and freely
'^iJ<^ communicated, is made evident to us by deaf-mutes. They
can and do express " ideas " by their gestures. At an
institution for the dumb in Edinburgh, the Lord's Prayer
is acted by mutes in an elaborate manner. The idea
" Father" is expressed by an action indicating " old man ;"
the idea " Name" by touching the forehead and indicating
the action of spelling on the fingers ; the idea " done ''
by the hands working ; the conception " on earth as it is
in heaven," by the two signs for " heaven " and " earth," and
by putting the two forefingers side by side to express
" equality ; " and so on. But the satisfactory nature to ;
mutes themselves of their own gesture-language, is shown
by the protests made by some of them in the newspapers a
few years ago in its favour, and against the practice of
teaching them to utter articulate sounds through a study
of the lip-motions of normally speaking people. The great
expressiveness of such gesture-language is also demon-
strated to us by the performance of whole plays by gesture,
without the utterance of a single word, as in various ballets.f
It is also demonstrated to us by the carrying out of Church
services % by gesture only — services attentively followed
by the deaf congregations which assemble to profit by
them.

As to the thorough intellectuality and power of com-
municating their ideas which deaf-mutes possess, Herr
Oehlvein, who was director of the Institution for the Educa-
tion of the Deaf and Dumb at Jena, has made the following

* Loc. cit., p. 355.

t The elaborate ballet called " La Jolie Fille de Gaud," which is a serious
play in several acts, may be specially referred to.

X A very interesting service of this kind is to be seen at the church for the
deaf in Oxford Street.

LANGUAGE.

229

statements : * " The deaf-mute represents objects which I
have become known to him through his senses of sight and '
touch, by corresponding signs. For this purpose he makes .
use of the means with which nature has furnished him, i
namely, movements of the muscles of his eyeballs and of
his limbs. Though so much bodily movement seems at
first to lend more vivacity to his expressions, yet it is much
more difficult for him thus to express general ideas than
it is for other men to express such ideas by words. The
deaf-mute who wishes to express the general idea ' red
colour,' does so by gently touching his lips ; and he will
make use of this gesture to denote the redness of the sky,
or of painted objects, or red stuffs or flowers. But how-
ever numerous may be the objects thus designated, the
idea ' red ' is for him a unity, and before thus expressing
it he must also have acquired the general ideas ' lips,' ' sky,'
'stuffs,' 'flowers,' etc. Thus the deaf-mute, when he invents
a sign for anything, applies it to all other things of the same
class according to his conception of that class. He has
clearly abstract ideas, for he knows that there is a quality
as to which his lips, red flowers, and the sky at sunset
agree. He can also understand and express propositions,
and he can reason in a simple fashion. The language of
deaf-mutes not only includes a play of feature and move-
ments of the hands, but also the attitudes and movements
of the whole body, and he can express himself by means
of them spontaneously without education. His modes of
expression by gestures follow a different order from that
of spoken languages. Instead of saying, ' Do you go or
stay ? ' the deaf-mute expresses himself, * Stay, go, you .-• '
Instead of saying, ' I go,' he makes the signs, ' Go, I.'
For 'The man's arm is strong,' he substitutes, 'Arm, man,
is, strong.' " He also tells us that deaf-and-dumb children
of seven years of age, who have not been taught, use
amongst themselves an astonishing quantity of rapid ges-
tures, and they easily understand each other's meaning. It
is, then, abundantly evident that a society of dumb men
would soon elaborate a gesture-language of great com-
plexity. A deaf-mute told Mr. G. J. Romanes that he

* In 1867. See Preyer, lo(. cit., p. 306.

Language a
consequence
of thought.

iN^-

230I, ON TRUTH.

always thought by means of mental images of hand-and-
feature movements.

It is plain, then, that rational conceptions, " abstract
ideas," can exist without spoken words ; but there is no
evidence that they can continue to exist without some em-
bodiment, some form of language, some corporeal expres-
sion, either by voice or by gesture. Language, therefore,
1 is a consequence of thought, and abstract ideas are indis-
i pensable preliminaries of language. We see this in our
common experience. When, in the cultivation of any
science or art, newly observed facts or newly devised pro-
cesses give rise to new conceptions, new terms are invented
to give expression to such conceptions. Thus new words
arise 2js, 2, consequent, and not as an antecedent, of such intel^
loctual action. New terms are always fitted to fresh ideas,
and not fresh ideas to new terms. Whoever attentively
follows the mental development of a child, will see that in
it also notions are formed spontaneously ; that they do not
follow the acquisition of words, but, on the contrary, often
give rise to them.

That language is dependent on thought, not thought
on language, is demonstrated for us by the lightning-like
rapidity — a rapidity far too great for words — -with which
our minds may detect a fallacy in an argument. This
instantaneousness is not the mere mental ejaculation of the
word " No ; " for the mental act is not a blind one, but is
uttered for a distinct reason, and is due to our instantly
seeing the nature of a fallacy, it may be a whole chain of
argument with its logical relations and consequences.
The most rapid cry or gesture of negation is often, then,
the sign of intellectual perceptions which would require
more than one sentence fully to express, but which are
perceived too rapidly for even the mental repetition of the
words of such sentences.

Nevertheless, these intellectual perceptions show them-
selves by bodily signs — sounds or gestures — and even all
our silent thought is carried on by the aid of some im-
agined bodily signs, without which, as we observed in the
beginning of this chapter, we cannot think. Human
language seems quite unable to grow, or even to endure,

LANGUAGE. 23 1

without some embodiment, without corporeal expressions
of some kind. Thus language, of word or gesture, is the
; necessary means of human thought, as well as its necessary-
consequence. The mental and bodily signs of language
are so intimately united that, though the mental side is
anterior, it at once seeks, as it were, to incarnate itself, and
under normal conditions does incarnate itself, in corporeal
expression. We have seen how deaf-mutes spontaneously
evolve a gesture-language through which they can under-
stand each other and communicate their ideas. Dr. W.
W. Ireland,* cites an instance of a boy who could not
speak ordinary words, and yet had invented a few of his a tendency
own, to which he attached fixed meanings. Thus he said \''anglJge
I " Weep-00 " for night or black, " burly " for wood or for a tl'late.
I carpenter, " tatteras " for soldiers, " hatts " for big or large,
* and so on, I myself knew an old lady of weak intellect who
lived under the care of my deceased friend the naturalist,
Charles Linnaeus Martin. She also had invented an imper-
fect language of her own, coining strange words with very
definite meanings, which she used frequently and adhered
to with pertinacity. Dr. Bastian has recorded f a case
(from his own experience) which seems to show that the
faculty of rational speech is so implanted in us, potentially,:
from the first, that it tends to manifest itself spontaneously, j
and may do so very unexpectedly. He tells us that in the '
year 1877 he was consulted concerning the health of a boy
twelve years old, and subject to fits at intervals. When
five years old he had never spoken a word, and physicians
' were consulted about his " dumbness." Before the expira-
; tion of another twelve months, however, on the occasion of
\ an accident happening to one of his favourite toys, he sud-
\ denly exclaimed, " What a pity ! " though he had never
previously spoken a single word. He was then again silent
for two weeks, but thereafter speedily became most talk-
ative. A more wonderful case was that of Laura^ Bi'Ldg-
man.$ She was blind as well a^s deaf, and had half lost the
power of smell, and yet learned to read and write and also

* See his work on " Idiocy and Imbecility," p. 276. Churchill : 1S77.
t " The Brain as an Or^an of Mind," p. 606. Keiran Paul, Trench & Co. :
1S80. " . F =, .

+ " Idiocy and Imbecility," p. 225.

sf'

2^2

ON TRUTH.

/*

to apprehend abstract relations and quantities, and this
though she lost her senses of sight and hearing, through
scarlet fever, so early that she had no recollection of having
had them. When Dr. Ireland first saw her she was six

(years old. The case of Meystre,* at Lausanne, born deaf
and dumb, and who became blind through an accident when
I six years old, is even more remarkable. He learned to
'/f speak audibly, and acquired many ideas. His idea of God
i was that of " thought enthroned somewhere." Such cases as
r these seem to demonstrate the existence of wonderful innate
\ intellectual capacities in the human mind. The facts of the
growth and development of language show us that thought
must be deeper, wider-reaching, and more perfect than its
bodily signs, and therefore that language can only give
imperfect expression to it. But for this, and for the facts
that thought is anterior to speech, and that mental language
has a greater range and perception than its bodily expres-
sion, the growth and development of language would be
impossible. But if thought cannot continue to exist in us
without some embodiment, much less can speech (apart
from mere emotional language) exist without thought and
without those complex intellectual actions of abstraction
and the recognition of abstract ideas, which are its very
life.
Roots, and Language has been shown to be reducible^ tcj,^. certain

ifthelri'sin nunibcr .aC43UnTiiiiLeJ££ms, which have been distinguished
"■^'"'■^''^■'as^" roots." A large number of these denote different
kinds of bodily activity. In consequence of this, a sug-
j^estign has been put forward that, in certain sounds
accompanying such actions — sounds such as seamen and
others often utter in common when working together — we
have the first origin of all language.

It is admitted on all hands that spoken language could

not arise except by the utterance of sounds, the meaning

of which was simultaneously understood both by those

; who uttered them and by those who heard them. Speech

(\ , requires an apprehending intelligence on the part of the

'/ hearer as well as on the part of the speaker, if it is to be

•• more than a monologue ; and we may consider it certain

* Loc. cif., p. 231.

4

I

LANGUAGE.

233

that speech would never have arisen had not two persons
possessed the same idea at the same time. Now, it is true
that a person performing, in the presence of others, any
action (such, for example, as pounding with a stone) would
know by consciousness what he was doing, and those
around him would know through their senses what he was
doing, and so a sound repeated by him in their presence
while so acting might, it has been contended, generate a
term to denote such action, which term would thus come
to be understood both by him and by those about him.

But if any emitted sounds really constituted the origin
of language by having existed before it, such sounds must
have been at first devoid of any accompaniment of abstract
conceptions. They must have afforded and constituted the
occasion for the conjunction of thoughts with sounds. ,
Words, however, are never now intelligently uttered ex- ;
cept when the mind is already furnished with the mental
abstraction to which such words refer. It would seem, i
therefore, that no man could ever have voluntarily and
intentionally uttered a sound to denote an action unless he A
already possessed a mental conception, that is, an abstract
idea, of that action ; nor could bystanders have accepted
and understood such demonstration unless they also already
had the idea. Again, even if the man performing the
supposed action be imagined to have at first uttered the
sound accidentally, without will or intention, and then re-
peated it only by automatic habit, it is evident he could
not come to understand or apply it subsequently except
by first acquiring the idea or conception itself. A sound,
articulate or not, and an abstract idea, are things utterly
distinct in kind; and to suppose that the former could ever
by itself generate the latter, is as absurd as to suppose
that the waves of the sea could generate the vessels which
float upon their surface.

The spoken word is most important and influential
when once it has been introduced, but its introduction
needs that reason should be already present. The doctrine ,; i^
that s^cch bc^at reason cannot be maintained, for speech j
cannot exist without the existence with it of that intel- L^
lectual activity of which it is the outward expression. As |

234 ON TRUTH.

^ ] well might the coincavities of a curved line be supposed to
exist without its convexities, as the spoken word be sup-
posed to have arisen prior to the idea which it represents,
j Experience shows us, as before observed, that, as a fact,
I words do not generate thoughts, but the very reverse. It
V is, of course, true that infants learn to speak words the
meanings of which they do not understand ; but, in the
^rst place, they learn them from those who do understand
them, and who make known to them by degrees their
meaning ; and, in Jhe second place, we do not know how
soon they annex meanings of some kind to the words they
learn, while they often plainly indicate that they have
meanings and knowledge of which they seek to convey,
before they can speak. They exhibit, as we have seen,
unmistakable signs of the spontaneous activity of the
germinating intellect, as every father knows. Every father
who cares to observe, may note with what facility his child
forms "universals," often making use of words to indicate
(as we have already pointed out) far more extensive classes
of objects than they properly serve to denote. Such terms
are certainly at first neither explicit universals nor explicit
singulars, for the child has at first no such explicit notions.
But it does not use infantine general terms to denote
some individual objects, before it has in its mind a vague
conception of a universal, and it soon employs the greatest
of all universals when it speaks of a " thing." \

'** We have seen that the mind of man is not depen-
r\) . dent on speech for language, but, when it is necessary, can
/y^ 1 design and use a language of gesture — language as truly
abstract and intellectual in its essence as that of the spoken
word. Rational conceptions, therefore, can evidently exist
without w;ords, but ration aI:JAaij:ds--jGaaaoJLX?^^^ without
i,^jiccptioiis QiLabatcact -Ideas, The intellect is the common
i^oot from which both thought and language (whether of
speech or gesture) spring, and thenceforth continue and ,
develop in inseparable union. It is therefore manifest that I
language and reason could never have originated from a I
practice of drawing the figures or outlines of objects. For i
such drawings are the equivalents of words, if not of pro-
positions, and must have been preceded by abstract con-

LANGUAGE.

'"i^

ceptions. No one could draw a horse who had not even Kinds of

, . , r 1 language

the idea of a horse.

Language, then — using that term in its widest possible /^

>*

%

>-

sense — consists of two radically distinct kinds — the lan-
guage of feeling,* and the language of the intellect. And
■TKe"re are three subdivisions of either tindf' 0£jthe. i»er€
^Janguage of the emotions and of feeling we may have — \

(i) Sounds which are neither articulate nor rational,
such as cries of pain, or the murmur of a mother to her
infant.

(2) Sounds which are articulate but not rational, such
as many oaths and exclamations, and the words of certain
idiots who will repeat, without comprehending, every phrase
they hear.

(3) Gestures which do not answer to rational concep-
tions, but are the bodily signs of pain or pleasure, of
passion or emotion.

Of the la,nguage of the jntellect we may have —
(i) Sounds which are rational but not articulate, such
as the inarticulate ejaculations by which we sometimes
express assent to or dissent from, given propositions.

(2) Sounds which are both rational and articulate, con-
stituting true " speech."

(3) Gestures which give expression to rational concep-
tions, and are therefore " external " but not " oral " mani-
festations of abstract thought. Such are many of the
gestures of deaf-mutes, who, being incapable of articulating
words, have invented or acquired a true gesture-language.

Thus the essence of true, or intellectual, language is The mental

and the

mental, and is intellectual activity — the verbuin vientale or st-okcnword.
the " mental word " — while the external expression of
thought may be distinguished as the verbum oris, or "spoken
word ; " and the latter ever follows the former, as is evident
by the constant process of inventing fresh terms — which
goes on in every science — in order to denote new or more
\ complete and better-defined conceptions.

It is evident that a paralyzed man might have essen-
tially the power of language (the " mental word "), though
accidentally hindered from externally manifesting that

* See above, p. 196.

236 ON TRUTH.

inner power by means of the " spoken word," or even by
gestures. Normally, the external and internal powers
exist inseparably. Once that the intellectual activity
exists, it seeks external expression by symbols — verbal,
manual, or what not — the voice or gesture-language.
Some form of symbolic expression is, therefore, the neces-
sary consequence in man of the possession of reason, while
it is impossible that true speech can for a moment exist
without the coexistence with it of that intellectual activity
of which it is the outward expression.

We are now in a position to appreciate the force of the
remark before made,* that a study of language proves that
there is a most important fundamental difference between
those various forms of feeling — activity, passivity, relation,
etc. — described in our fourteenth chapter, and the corre-
sponding intellectual perceptions. It has been asserted that
the only real difference between such feelings and the
corresponding ideas is due to the introduction of language,
and is a mere affair of words being added to antecedent
feelings. But it is now clear that no addition of mere
words could effect such a transubstantiation as would be
the change of feelings into ideas. This is clear because
we have here seen that intellectual conceptions — abstract
ideas — must be already possessed by and present in the
mind before language can have any meaning. The exist-
ence of the mental word must ever precede that of the
spoken word. The existence, therefore, of the former can
never be due to the presence of the latter ; and the various
complex and wonderful varieties of feeling before described,!
though they form the natural basis and sensuous supports
of reason, are not and never can become reason itself.
Logical in their essential relations they may be, but the
logic of the intellect is of altogether another nature. The
so-called " logic of feeling " is not truly logic, and is only
so named by a remote analogy with the laws of thought,
in which alone true logic really and formally exists.-^

* See above, p. 20S. t See above, pp. 189-201.

( 237 )

CHAPTER XVII,

PERCEPTIONS OF TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY.

We apprehend truth, goodness, and beauty as objective attributes of
; things, which attributes answer to three corresponding ideas, most

' closely allied, but each ultimate and incapable of analysis.

These perceptions accompanied by corresponditig feelings — Objectivity
of truth — Material and formal truth — Truth a universal relation
of conformity — Idea of number — Ideas of existence, essettce, reality,
possibility, necessity, and catisation — Perception of goodness —
Goodness an ultimate idea — Good?iess universal j implies a relation
— Material and formal goodness — Objectivity of goodness — Dis-
tinctitess of moral perceptions from sentimeiits — TJie moral se?tse
a higher instinct — Feeling for and perception of beauty — Beauty
is perfection — Objectivity of beauty — Everything has beauty.

Our perceptions of being and of power have been, per- Thcscpcr-
haps, sufficiently adverted to ; but our faculty of appre- ^coml'aM
bending truth, goodness^ and- beauty is a faculty the study spondhig
of which seems to us to be of such importance as to need '^^^
\ separate treatment. These three distinct apprehensions
I are usually accompanied by corresponding sentiments or
[ h]gher_ emotions,* which in turn repose respectively upon
' three of our sensuous faculties or lower mental powers.f
As it is impossible for us to have any idea, however lofty,
without the support of some sensuous imagination — a fact
which introspection has shown us % — so also our higher
sentiments repose on and are sustained by corresponding
lower feelings, which again are, in turn sustained, and
ministered to by the nervous structures of our body.§

* See above, p. 221. t See above, pp. 193, 197.

X See above, p. 88.

§ As to the nervous system, see above, p. 150.

2^8

ON TRUTH.

Objcciivity

Our apprehension of truth has been sometimes said to
be a mere subjective individual feeHng — truth for each
man being just what each man trovveth, and no more. But
the reader's common sense will, we are convinced, soon show
him that truth really exists, at least as a quality of state-
ments and beliefs. This is a fact which no man can really
deny. For any sceptic who honestly affirms that truth has
a merely subjective value, must, at the same time, thereby
deny and refute his own affirmation. For if the statement,
"Truth is merely an individual feeling," were, in fact^ true,
then that very statement itself — being " a fact " — would
itself be an objective truth, and more than an individual
feeling ; so, at least in this instance, the sceptic must affirm
that " Truth is not merely an individual feeling," i.e. he
must refute himself. But, as before pointed out,* and
as John Stuart Mill has affirmed,! the recognition of the
truth of any judgment we make is not only an essential
part, but the essential part, of it as a judgment. Leave
that out, and it remains a mere play of thought, in which
no judgment is passed. No follower of any branch of
physical science, at any rate, can reasonably doubt that
truth is more than a mere quality recognized as belonging
to a judgment by him who emits it, and has a real relation
to external things. Otherwise, it is plain that science could
make no progress. We do not base scientific inductions
and deductions on our knowledge of beliefs, but of facts ;
and, without a foundation of facts, beliefs are worthless.
The independence and objectivity of truth should be
especially manifest at a period in which the unconditional
pursuit of truth is perhaps more eagerly engaged in than at
any previous time, and when a profound reverence for truth
is ardently professed by the leading men in each depart-
ment of physical science, and is certainly in their lips no
idle boast. The truth of physical science consists in the
agreement of "thought" with "things;" of the world of
" beliefs " with the world of " external \ existences." Truth,
then, cannot be only " what each man troweth," but must

* See above, p. 104,

t In his " Examination of Sir William Hamilton's Philosophy," p. 346.

X The reader may here recur to the illustration before given, p. 137.

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY.

!9^>J^

be what a man troweth when he troweth in conformity
with real external coexistences and sequences, and with
the causes and conditions of the world about him. Truth,
therefore, is and must be both sttbjeGtiv^-.aad_objective.
■*rri"§ subjective, regarded as a quality of his thought byTmn
' wBo thinks it. It is objective, regarded as a quality of
j • the thought of any one else. There is another form of
truth called moral truth, which consists in a conformity
between the words or gestures of a man, and the judg-
ments and convictions of his mind. To make an assertion
which is opposed to facts is, of course, to say what is not
true ; but such an assertion may be innocently made by
mistake, and, if so made, it does not violate moral truth,
and only constitutes what is called material untruth. To Material
speak deliberately and intentionally in opposition to facts ""uek.'''""'
known to be such constitutes what we may distinguish
as formal untruth.

But can " truth " be attributed to things themselves ' ^
apart from any assertions made or beliefs entertained about ■ J
them ? We often speak of " making a false note " in 1
music, and of ''false drawing " in a picture, or of a statue \
being " true to nature ; " and we may praise a man for acting
as " a true friend." These expressions refer to the exist-
ence or non-existence of a conformity between some object
or action and the idea of such object or the intention which
should accompany such action. Here, then, truth is also Tmth a
a relation of conformity between external realities and the Veiationo/
mind. But, once more, can truth be attributed to things '^''"-^'"^"'''•
themselves apart from and independently of all and eveiy
-^ ■ human mind ? The answer which a man will make to
this question must depend upon his conviction respecting
■ a first cause.* All those persons who are convinced of
the reasonableness of Theism must affirm that truth cani
be so_attributQdv For if we may conceive what, for lackl
of a better name, we may call "intelligent purpose" as
underlying nature, then each object, in so far as it corre-
sponds with such intention, may with justice be spoken
of as true. It is another, though widely different, con-
formity between thought and things — namely, their con-

* As to this question, see Sect. V. chap. xxvi.

240 ON TRUTH.

formity with the thought which is Divine. " Truth," then,
essentially expresses a relation of agreement between two
distinct things. Nothing is or can be true in itself, but
only in relation to something else with which it conforms.
Truthis _thus one kind of conformity, and the essence of ^
all truth is likeness. If it be further asked, " What is con-
formity or agreement or likeness ?" the only reply possible
is that such words express an ultimate idea. The terms
" likeness " and " unlikeness " are incapable of explanation.
They express an idea as impossible to explain as to define
because it is so simple. For to say, two things are alike
when they are " at one," or " identical in some respect or
other," does not deserve to be called an explanation. Any
mind, then, which cannot understand the term " likeness,"
may regard the task of understanding any branch of know-
ledge, however elementary it may be, as altogether beyond
its power. It is as evident that everything cannot be
explained or defined, as that everything, as we pointed out
in the beginning of this work,* cannot be proved. If
nothing was ultimate, nothing could ever be explained
or defined, but those processes would have to go on for
ever.

A little reflection will also show the reader that a full
apprehension of the idea " truth " involves that of some
other highly abstract ideas. We have seen that certain
objects are true when they so exist as to correspond with
the essential idea they embody. Moreover, truth is one,
while _error,is manifold. We may, for example, have maTiy
false descriptions of the law relating to the enfranchise-
ment of copyholds, but there is only one account which
can possibly correspond with the facts of the case. If,
then, truth is really and essentially one, to understand the
full meaning of that word we must more or less compre-
hend the meaning of the ideas " unity " (and therefore
"plurality" and "number"), "existence," "essence,"'
" reality," " necessity," and " possibilitys^

First, as to the ideas " unity " and " number " : The idea
of unity is one of the most simple of our ideas. It can be
applied to all things, whether they are or are not perceptible

* See above, p. 9,

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY. 24 1

to the senses. It may be applied equally well to the bed
we last slept in, and to the first thought we had on waking
within it. Similarly, the idea of number can be applied /-/^^ "/
universally to thoughts, contradictions, negations, and
fictions, as well as to more positive things, and things
which can be seen and handled.

The idea of number applies to the simultaneous as well
as the successive. We may be able to say with equal truth
that we have five sovereigns in our purse and that we have
walked five miles. Nevertheless, a perception of number
does not ordinarily arise except as a consequence of " suc-
cession " — of our perceiving things successively. For the
recognition of two things as being of that number requires
something more than their simple perception or imagina-
tion. They must be susceptible of comparison, and be
recognized — at least implicitly — as belonging to some one
class, so that they can be united under one common idea
as a consequence of intellectual abstraction and comparison.
No one, for example, could say that his kitchen chimney
and Scott's conception of the character of Effie Deans
were " two," unless he spoke of them as two things
" thought of by him." By so doing he would unite them
under a common idea, and could then say truly they were
" two," namely, two thoughts of his. As it is with " two,"
so of course is it with all other numbers. They exist reallyX 'S^
in things as well as in the mind, which, we find by expe- \
rience, has the power of recognizing objective conditions 1 , .
of number, unity and plurality in objects, and of forming / ■«»•
corresponding subjective conceptions. The idea of any /
number, e.g. " five," is not the idea of the word (vocal sign)
" five," since it corresponds not only equally well with the
word whether spoken or written, but also with correspond-
ing conventional gestures. But the idea itself is /wt con-
ventional. It is the sign (oral or manual) adopted to
express that idea, which is conventional. Of course, the
same object maybe "one," regarded from one point of
view, and " many," regarded from another point of view ;
as in the familiar example of a regiment of soldiers.

But the idea of truth also necessarily implies the Idea ii/eas 0/
of '' existence," since whatever is true must in some sense IfJenc"''^'

R

242

ON TRUTH.

necessity,
and causa-
tion.

"be." * But we apprehend not only the truth of positively,
subsisting things,t but the truth of propositions, and dis-
tinguish between things which are actually and really truej
(as that Vesuvius is in Italy), and things which are real!
at the same time that they are ideal — as, for example,
the beauty of Cordelia's character, or the image of the
earth which would be formed in our eyes could we view
it from the moon's surface. We sometimes recognize, also,
that a given consequence may or iimst follow from some
antecedent' — as that sunset must occasion some degree of
darkness, but may be accompanied with a glowing western
sky. Of course, the truth of any proposition depends
essentially on the agreement between the statement it
conveys and the matter, actual or ideal, to which it relates.
As, then, the " essence " of truth exists in this conformity,
to fully understand truth, is to have some conception of
" essence!' " Essence " may thus be seen to signify " that,
in the absence of which, a thing cannot be what it should
be or is." The preceding examples of ideal truths may I
serve to show that the idea of reality does not necessarily
imply actual existence ; for, though nothing which actually i
exists can be " unreal," yet whatever may so exist, though \
as yet it does not, has a certain reality; that is to say, it is |
not purely imaginary. That men believe in the " reality " 1
of the summer which has yet to come, is shown by their
preparations for the crops it is expected to bring to perfec-
tion ; as attention to warm clothing, shows how the reality
of next winter is. believed in by furriers, hosiers, and house-
wives.

The idea of possibility is included in the full meaning
of " truth," because, if anything is "true," it cannot, by the
law of contradiction, at the same time be " untrue. The
law of contradiction we see to be " necessarily " true. But
we cannot apprehend that anything is " necessary " without
also comprehending the meaning of the opposite term
"not necess"ary " — that is, " possible." We have a fourfold nl
idea of possibility — intrinsic and extrinsic, physical and m

* The idea of " being " has been already noticed (see above, p. 205).

t We have already observed how, in our intellectual perception of any
object, there is contained an apprehension of its subsistence, as well as of its
nature (see above, p. 211).

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY. '^M //j

moral. A thing may be understood to be " possible "

tntrin^jj^ly , that is, in so far as there is no contradiction
contained within it. It is thus intrinsically possible for
a bird or beast to differ more or less in colour from its
congeners ; but it is not possible for a bird or beast to have
gills instead of lungs. It is possible for a seemingly unkind
act to be a proper return for a really kind one ; but it is
impossible for ingratitude to be a virtue. But a thing may
be intrinsically, though not extrinsically, possible, that is to
say, an object or action may be possible in itself, while
there are no means and appliances to bring it about — as,
for example, to throw a projectile from London to New
York. A thing may be possible physically but not
morally. Thus it is physically but not morally possible
for all men to unite in telling the same lie.*

As to the idea of " necessity," we have long ago t recog-
nized our apprehension of " necessary truth," and how a
perception of the law of contradiction, that is of " absolute
J impossibility," is at the root of all our intellectual activity.
Of course, an apprehension of " necessity " is, as it were,
but the other side of our apprehension of " absolute impos-
sibility " — since whatever cannot possibly fail to be, must
of necessity exist. In these ideas of possibility and neces-
sity, the idea of causation is involved. Of that intellectual
conception we have already spoken. % as well as of those
sensuous perceptions and feelings which are closely related
to it. §

(Next after the perception of " truth," we may consider PcrcefiHon
r 7 1 • 1 • 1 of goodness.

our perception of "■goodness — our ethical judgments as to
"right" and "wrong." This higher faculty of ours must
be carefully distinguished from mere feelings of sympathy,
companionship, regretful emotions of a painful character,
and feelings of shame. Such feelings we have already
recognized |1 as pertaining to the lower side of our nature,
that is to say, as being distinct from — however frequently
they may accompany — our intellectual perception of cir-
cumstances, either meriting our sympathy or properly
exciting in us a feeling of shame. Perceptions of such

* See above, p. 6i. t See above, chap. iv. p. 39.

X See above, p. 48. § See above, p. 195. |1 See above, p. 186.

244

ON TRUTH.

fS

N

facts, and the feelings which may attend those perceptions,
are evidently very different things.

Xhe idea of " goodness " is, moreover, quite distinct from

'^y\ the ideas of " utility " or " pleasure." Not, of course, but

that what is pleasurable may in one sense be called " good,"
as also things which are useful. But, as we shall see
directly, the " goodness " of such things is not either in
their pleasurableness or their utility. It resides in another
property which is common both to things pleasurable
or useful, and also to things " good," in the highest sense
of that term.

When we call either a knife, a gun, a horse, or a coat,
" good," we mean that it is well adapted to serve the
purposes for which it was intended. We may use it
similarly with respect to a race-horse, a baker, a judge, or
a bishop. Nevertheless, a little consideration serves to
show that this use of the term does not bring us to the
foundation of the idea " goodness," and the same objection
applies to the use of that term to denote anything which
must give us pleasure. The "goodness" referred to in
both these cases is " goodness of a certain order " — a relative
goodness of a limited kind, and not " goodness " simply
and absolutely. A useful thing is " good " because it has
the " virtue " of " serving, or conforming to, some end or
? intention," and a pleasant thing is " good " because it has
the virtue of occasioning pleasure, as will shortly be more,
distinctly pointed out. But neither " conformity to an
end " nor the " elicitation of pleasure " is good absolutely,^
unless the end aimed at and the pleasure enjoyed are alsoj
" good." The tool of a housebreaker will be good, as made
of good materials, well put together, etc., and also as apt
for its end ; but it cannot be absolutely " good " regarded
in the latter aspect — owing to its relation to the defective
intention of the thief who is to use it. Neither can the
pleasure which may be elicited by some act of cruelty be
good. No object or action, pleasurable or otherwise, can be
good simply, unless it tends to what is in itself good and
"agreeable to duty" — unless through that object or action,
we "follow the right order." To be "good," it must

* See below, p. 251.

/

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY. 245 >^

somehow conduce to such a following of the right order.
The action must be one whereby we follow that order, and ,
the object must be something by the contemplation or \
other use of which, the right order tends to be followed. \
We may ask, " Why should we conform to duty ? Why I
should we follow the right order } " To these questions
the only possible answer is, " It is right so to do." It may,
perhaps, be replied, " The right order should be followed
because it is our interest to follow it." But any one so
replying must mean either that it is always right to follow
our interest because it is our " interest," — and so abandon
the idea of duty altogether ; or else that " we should follow
our interest, not because it is our interest, but because it is
rigJit',' — and so affirm the very ethical principle which he
I set out with the intention of denying. Evidently it is not coodmss
a man's absolute duty always to follow his own interest, w^ /i^^.
regardless of his fellow-men, and whatever the circum-
stances of the case may be. But if any one really followed
his interest on that ground, i.e. because he thought it was
his duty so to do, then he would follow it, not because it
was his interest, but because he thought it was right/

Every one will admit that " gratitude is a good thing,"
and gratitude certainly gives pleasure, promotes happi-
ness, and conduces to prosperity. But the idea of its
"goodness "^is something different from the ideas "plea-
sure," " happiness," and " prosperity." The idea of a being |
who sacrifices all these excellent things in order to perform j
what he deems an act of duty, is the idea of a very good -
being, but not necessarily of a happy one.

The radical distinctness which exists between our idea
" goodness," and every other conception, can be shown by
the analysis of any ethical precept we may wish to select.
Let us suppose, for example, that any one is told he
"should pay his tailor," and the truth of the saying is
disputed : how should we set about trying to convince him
of its truth .'' Obviously, by putting forward some more
elementary and general moral precept, which we anticipate
will be assented to at once — such as " Every man is bound
to pay his debts." If this is again disputed, we might
further urge, " A man is bound to satisfy obligations he has

€l

h\(iJljM ON TRUTH.

voluntarily incurred," and so on. In every step we make
to explain why a duty should be performed, there must
always be a further and more elementary declaration of
duty, until we come to some assertion of the kind the
truth of which is admitted as self-evident. In. other words, ^,
we cannot^ grove any truths concerning duty by appealing ■
'to__ considerations mto which the idea of duty does not |
entej:. All our knowledge, as we have seen,* is either self- 1
evident or is legitimately deduced from what is self-evi-
dent ; and this, of course, applies to our idea of right and
wrong, as well as to all the rest of our knowledge. Now,
if we see that some definite line of action is certainly
"right," the proposition which declares it to be right
must either be self-evident or must be deduced from other
propositions as to what is right, one of which at least must
/ be self-evident ; or else we can have no basis whatever for
I our knowledge as to what is right or wrong. In other
fjl words, the general propositions which lie at the root of any
ethical system must themselves be ethical. f This truth
cuts the ground from under — renders simply impossible —
the view that a judgment as to moral obligation can ever
be, or could ever have been, developed from mere likings
or dislikings, or from feelings of sympathy, companion-
ship, and those pleasurable and painful feelings which may
be occasioned by the goodwill or hostility of our fellow-
men.

Those persons who, while affirming moral precepts,
deny the essential distinctness of our idea of goodness,
can always be refuted by an analysis of the precepts they
maintain. Such an analysis will suffice to show how they
implicitly contradict themselves. We are not likely,
however, again to meet with so amusing and inslruclive an
example of such contradiction as tlie one which the late
John Stuart Mill has supplied us with. That eminent
denier of the essential distinctness of virtue and upholder /
of utilitarian principles, once wrote as follows :% " If I am
informed that the world is ruled by a being whose attributes
are infinite, but what they are we cannot learn, nor what

* See above, p. 14.

j: As pointed out by Mr. Arthur Balfour.

\ See his " Examination of Sir William Hamilton's Philosophy," p. 103.

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY.

6^

1^

are the principles of his government, except that 'the
highest human morality which we are capable of conceiv-
ing' does not sanction them ; convince me of it, and I will
bear my fate as I may. But when I am told that I must
believe this, and at the same time call this being by the
names which express and affirm the highest human morality,
I say in plain terms that I will not. Whatever power such
a being may have over me, there is one thing which he
shall not do — he shall not compel me to worship him. I
will call no being good who is not what I mean when I
apply that epithet to my fellow-creatures ; and if such a
being can sentence me to hell for not so calling him, to
hell I will go."

In saying this. Mill only says what every right-minded
man should say. Admirable, however, as is his declaration, '■
it is singularly inconsistent in the mouth of a professed '
utilitarian. For if actions are " good " or " bad " merely
according to the pleasure or pain which may follow them, ■
then, if by flattering a bad god we could all secure a
maximum of pleasure while otherwise we should all incur
endless torment, then certainly, on utilitarian principles
(not, of course, on the principles we defend), such flattery
would be good. Mill's position is indeed a curious one ;
I for he must mean that, in the matter in question, all men
• would do well to act with him. He, in effect, then, affirms
that to attain the greatest possible happiness for all, is the
aim men should pursue, and also that in its pursuit they
may accept the greatest possible amount of final, universal
misery ! Malebranche has expressed * himself to the same )
effect as Mill, except as regards its inconsistency.
I Our perception of the character of goodness, ia the per-
f ccption of something ultimate and not dependent even oii.
^^^the will of any Diviue Being. There have been persons
yrrwho maintained the contrary of this, and who have said,
inot only : " that is right which God commands," but also
V' it is right because He commands it." But in our percep- ,
tions of duty and moral obligation, we recognize the |
fact that it addresses conscience with an essentially abso-
lute and unconditional imperativeness. No good man

* Sec below, chap. xxvi.

^

^

<

y

248, ON TRUTH.

could consent to perform a really ungrateful or cruel action,
seen by him to be such, even in obedience to the behests
of an Omnipotent Being. We must, therefore, approve
and admire Mill's declaration, above cited, however much
we may distrust our own powers of even enduring a tem-
poral martyrdom. But if " goodness " cannot be dependent
even on the will of God ; if the commands of conscience
are absolute and supreme ; if it is impossible even to con-
ceive of a lawful evasion of its universal and unconditional
authority ; then the ethical principle must be rooted, as it
i were, within the inmost heart, the very foundation, so to
I speak, of the great whole of existence it pervades. The
'' principles of the moral law must be at least as extensive
jand enduring' as are"those starry heavens which shared
I with it the profound reverence of Kant. Moral truth is
universal, necessary, self-evident, ultimate, and primary,
and belongs to the category of necessary truth, which we
examined in our first and fourth chapters.* It exis_ts,^|/
therefore, objectively, and is not dependent upon the humani//
mind. /

Moreover, as we saw before f that all persons who-
believe that a Divine intention is expressed in nature must
affirm everything to be " true " in so far as it corresponds
with that intention, so it must also be with respect to
" goodness." Every object or action, in so far as it exists ■
and so follows the law of its being, must be more or less
" good." If by defect it deviates from a higher good, it
thereby becomes a more or less good thing of an inferior
order — as a marble statue broken into fragments ceases to
be good as a statue, and becomes so many pieces of marble,
" good " in their degree and apt for various inferior ends.

Thus the idea of "goodness," like that of "truth," essen-'^
tially implies a relation. As nothing can be true save by /
its conformity or likeness to something else, so nothing
within our powers of observation and imagination can be
" good " save by its harmony with an eternal, absolute law,
by concordance with which it " follows the right order,"
Evil, therefore, cannot be perceived by us to have any abso-
lute, positive existence, but appears to be merely negative

* See above, pp. 12, 38. t See abov.e, p. 239.

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY. 249^^

— only a certain degree of relative deficiency of existence
or deficiency of correspondence with ideal goodness, on
the part of some existing thing.

The goodness of actions is manifestly twofold — they Material
may be "good" in themselves, or " good " as he'n\g don& ZZdneTsl'^
with a good intention by those who perform them. These
two meanings of the term may be distinguished in the
same way as we have already * distinguished the analogous
distinction between the two meanings of the word " truth,"
namely, as material and forvial. True goodness — that
which contains the essence of the idea — is what \?> foiU2i£dl^ ""l^y^
(or absolutel}') good ; i.e. good in intention as well as in its
consequences. The other kind — goodness which is only
material — regards the effects of an action, "and not the in-
tention with which it is performed. Thus, let us suppose
that a certain man, Smith, who has an attractive daughter,
asks Brown, whom he has greatly obliged, to introduce
his daughter to a career he thinks will be greatly for her
advantage. Let us suppose, further, that Brown, being a very
malicious man, mistakenly supposes the introduction will
injure the girl, and therefore complies with the request, but
in so doing really benefits her. Brown's action is, then,
"materially" good, because of its actually good effects, but'
" formally " it is a very wicked action. Had Brown's inten-
tion been really benevolent, his action would then have
been both materially and formally good. Neither the
giving of pleasure to Smith, or to his daughter, or to him-
self, will make Brown's malevolent action a good one ; nor
would the giving pain to Smith, to his daughter, or to him-
self, have prevented a refusal on Brown's part from being
formally good, when he thought the desired introduction
would be really injurious to the girl. Thus acts may be
materially moral or immoral in a very high degree, without
being in the \q.2,'s>\. formally so. A sick man may be nursed
with scrupulous care and exactness by some one who there-
by greatly benefits him, but who all the time is animated
by the hope and expectation of a good legacy. A man
may, in the dark, shoot his own father, taking him to be
an assassin, and so commit what is " materially " an act of

* See above, p. 239.

2 50...-y ON TRUTH.

parricide, though " formally " it is only an act of self-defence,
perhaps done with blameworthy rashness. A woman may
innocently marry a man who, unknown to her, has a wife
already, and so commit a " material " act of adultery. She
may discover the facts, and persist in living with him, and
so make her act a " formal " one.

It has been objected to this distinction that by it we
exaggerate the importance of consciousness, seeing that
" the most beautiful character to which a man can attain
// is that of doing good immediately and spontaneously,
without thinking about it ; not that of balancing and weigh-
ing and only acting after more or less doubt and hesita-
[ tion." According to this distinction, it is urged, a covetous
man, almost a thief, but who manages reluctantly just to
escape actual dishonesty, is superior to a man who feels
no temptation, but acts justly without a thought. The
question of ethical " feeling " we will consider further on ;
but we would now point out that the essence of the objec-
tion just stated is a denial of the supreme merit of a good
" intention," which, of course, cannot exist without conscious I
thought. But it cannot be really meant that it is the /
^absence of thought " which causes the beauty of a spon- /
ta.iieous moral action. Otherwise, were we to perform i
beneficial actions in our sleep we should thereby attain \
[ this climax of moral beauty. The " not thinking about it," |

y~ \ therefore, is not that which makes the supposed action
^1 beautiful. Its. beauty consists in its being the outcome
.' and result of a habit of mind which has been acquired and^
.' strengthened by, many antecedent good actions. A man
T~ could not get himself into such a condition of habitual
readiness to do what is right, without previous voluntary
acts in which he has discriminated right from wrong. A j
man cannot love justice without being able to distinguish
it from injustice, and to love "moral beauty" he must !
know it. The idea of good which the man has in the past »
apprehended, must be influencing him at the time of his sup- I
posed action, whether he adverts to it or not ; otherwise the |
action is not a virtuous one. The merit of the virtue which
shows itself in even the spontaneous, indeliberate action of a
good man, results from the fact of previous acts of his having

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY. 251^

/ been consciously directed to goodness, and a habit having
been thus formed. The more thoroughly a man is pos-
sessed by the idea of duty, the more his whole being is
saturated with that idea, the more will goodness show itself
in all his even spontaneous actions, which thus will have
additional merit from their very spontaneity^-

Thus " goodness," like " truth," is both subjective and objcctiinty

, . . T • 1 • • 1 11 1-.. of goodness.

objective, It is subjective when regarded as a quality ot -f
the mind of any one conscious of a good intention. It is "
objective, regarded as that quality of an object, action, or '^
intention, whereby it conforms in its degree to that eternal ^
laiv of-,rigJit which manifests itself to our intellect as in-
herent in the universe as we know it by observation, reason-
ing, and consciousness, our consciousness showing it to be
inherent in our very selves.

Reverting to the distinction, which we before briefly
considered,* between our ideas of things " good " and things ;/
" useful," it may be further observed that "j^irtil£..!l-aild4- #»
" utility "j.re ideas no± only fundamentally distinct, but so ?^
far in natural opposition that the existence of utility in an j
action^^i^_jiQW- . .and again detract from its virtue. So \
essential is the distinction that not only does the idea of
" benefit " not enter into the idea of " duty," but we even see
that the very fact of an act not being beneficial to us may
make it the more praiseworthy. Its merit is increased by
any self-denial which may be necessary to its performance,
while gain tends to diminish the merit of an action. It is
not that the absence of gain or pleasure, benefits our neigh-
bour more ; it is that any diminution of pleasure which
circumstances may occasion, irrespective of any advantage
thereby occasioned to our neighbour, in itself heightens the
value of the action. That, therefore, cannot be the substance
of *' duty " which increases " dutifulness " by its absence.

The conception of duty is the conception of something
supreme and absolutely incumbent upon us without appeal,
apart from any question of pleasures or pains, rewards or
punishments. Cicero has well characterized it as " Quod
tale est nt detracta oiiiiii iitilitate sive idlis prccmiis fnicti-
bttsque perseipsmn possit jure landari."

* See above, p. 244.

252 OiY TRUTH.

We rarely advert to abstract conceptions of right and
wrong, but we apprehend very frequently that of two modes
of action, one is higher, nobler, and superior morally to the
j other. We appreciate the good, bad, or indifferent cha-
iracter of actions taking place under given circumstances.
We do not say, however, that men always coincide in their
views as to the moral character of any given action, or that
the same man will estimate its ethical value in the same
way at different periods of his life. What is here contended
for is the absolutely distinct nature and character of that
quality which we attribute to any action when we call it
" good." Varieties of view as to the ethical character of
different particular acts will come under our notice in our
nineteenth chapter,* which will be devoted to a considera-
tion of mankind, and, amongst other matters, to their
Distinctness ethical judgments. There is one fact which it is most

/ of moral 1 • 1 1 • 11 1 • 1 1 • •

perceptions desu'ablc to rccognizc clearly — that is, the distmctness
' ments. which cxists bctwcen our ethical judgments and any sen-
i\/tf J timents we may feel respecting our own actions or those of
V\ /yV other people. Feelings, emotions, and sentiments, plea-
/ surable or painful, frequently do and always should accom-
pany our perceptions of, or judgments about, good or bad
actions. That such feelings, however, are very different
from the perceptions or judgments themselves, a very little
consideration will suffice to show. Thus our own con-
sciousness and the observation of other men, will suffice to
assure us that some pleasurable or painful sentiments of
the kind may be felt about matters which we see clearly
; have nothing to do with right or wrong. Some trifling
! breach of etiquette or some innocent violation of social
usage may call up a blush and feeling of shame far more
vivid and distressing than what may attend some consider-
able moral delinquency. Keen remorse also may be felt
for the neglect of some happy occasion for augrnenting, by
a polite attention, the goodwill of an influential acquaint-
ance. Indeed, it is only too possible that such remorse may
be felt for having neglected the opportunity of committing
a very pleasurable but very wicked act. A French wr]t£ri
has said that no regret is so keen as the regret which may be'

* See Ijelow, p. 282.

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY. 253

felt for the non-commission of pleasant sins which might
have been enjoyed. It has been said that " conscience " is
that feeling of regretful dissatisfaction which is induced in
a man who looks back and judges a past action with disap-
proval. Now, " conscience " certainly " looks back and
judges," but not all that " looks back and judges " is " con-
science." A judgment of conscience is one of a particular
kind, namely, a judgment according to the standard of
moral worth. But for this, a gourmand suffering after
dinner from dyspepsia, might exercise his conscience in
looking back and judging with "regretful dissatisfaction"!
that he had eaten the wrong sauce ! A regretful sentiment!
of dissatisfaction thus can clearly exist when we make no
moral judgment. Such a sentiment may exist in the mind
of a vegetarian who has broken his rule, and who may
reasonably feel vexation at his own infirmity of purpose ;
but such a feeling is quite different from the perception
that he has done an act morally wrong, as in the case of
a man who felt bound in conscience by the religion he
followed to abstain from animal food.

The painful feeling of having incurred the dislike or
disapprobation of our fellow-men, may also exist apart from
a belief that we have committed any wrong. If this were
not the case, how could we ask, as we may and sometimes '
do ask, whether society in certain cases is " right " or // '
" wrong " } How could we ask, as we do, why we should \ J?
obey society at all.'' We demand, and rightly demand, a J*'
rational basis for social claims. Those claims, then, or!
a feeling of deference to public opinion, cannot be the basis
of morality. If it were that basis, then courage must have
come to be regarded as supremely good, and cowardice as
deserving of the deepest moral condemnation. And yet
what is the fact ? A coward probably feels self-contempt,
and also that he has incurred the contempt of his associates,
but he does not judge that he is "wicked." We despise,
avoid, or hate a coward ; but we know that his cowardice
may be due to defective organization, and we can clearly
understand that it is possible for a coward to be more
virtuous than some other man who is conspicuous for
courage. Feelings induced by recollections or anticipations

254

ON TRUTH.

The mora!
sense a
higlicr
institict.

of punishment are also very different from moral judgments,
as is abundantly evident from the many men, of very dif-
ferent views, who have nevertheless agreed in willingness
/to undergo suffering for conscience' sake. Many men also
/ see clearly the moral turpitude of their habitual acts with-
; out any dislike of, or disposition to punish, the companions
\ of their vices ; rather the contrary.

Pleasurable or painful feelings having a certain resem-
blance to moral sentiments, may accompany perceptions
which plainly have nothing to do with "right " and "wrong ;"
while distinct ethical perceptions may not be accompanied
I by appropriate feelings. The case is stronger even than
I this : the apprehension, through ear or eye, of very evil
I actions, may give rise to keenly pleasurable feelings, while
\ moral truths may be both clearly seen and hated. To a
''. trifling degree this is by no means rare. It is unfortu-
nately common enough to feel that some duty is irksome
and distasteful. Nevertheless, the idea of goodness is
generally accompanied by a feeling of complacency.* In,
a perfect nature, what is virtuous is pleasurable ; but in an
"imperfect nature it may be more or less painful. " Marali
"Teeirng "—the " jpiQx^l^sense " — ^i§,,a.sort of rational instinct.!
It is an instinct of our higher nature, parallel with,"HuF
entirely distinct from, the instinct of our lower mental
powers before noticed. f Its existence is necessary to form
a perfect man. To be ethically complete, our sympathies
and aversions, our pleasurable satisfaction and our regretful
dissatisfation, should respectively accompany our ethical
perceptions of right and wrong — our judgments of moral
approbation and the reverse. The reader can judge by
this, on examining his own feelings, how far he approxi-
mates to or departs from this standard of moral perfection.
Our reason judging as to right and wrong is " conscience,"
which often plainly tells which of two alternative actions is
the higher, and which we ought therefore to follow. But in-
trospection does not show us that we possess any other
I ethical faculties than those of (i) reason so judging, and (2)
J that moral sentiment which may or may not accompany such
f judgments. The subject will be further adverted to in the
* See above, p. 222. f See above, p. 184.

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY. 255

final chapter of this section, when we come to speak of the
moral phenomena which are common to mankind.

The third and last perception we have now to consider FccUns/or
is that of beauty. 7eptionqf

We have already seen, when considering our lower ''"'"^''
mental powers,* that we possess feelings of liking for
certain sights, sounds, etc. — feelings of "taste," which vary
greatly in different individuals. We also, in addition to
these feelings, make distinct judgments about the beauty
of objects which are to our taste or the reverse. That tastes
differ is a proverbial truth, as also that it is useless to dis-
pute about them. What we have a liking for, we do like, how-
ever much we may be blamed, despised, or envied for likincr
it. If a man really prefers Etty to Raphael, or Rigoletto
to Lohengrin, no amount of reasoning or animadversion
can do more than make him feign the contrary. Tastes
also not only differ from individual to individual, but our
own taste in early life is often not the same as that of
later years. May it not be said, then, that beauty is but » /.■
a matter of individual fancy and purely subjective, and
the existence of any positive, absolute, objective beauty,
a mere dream of more or less poetical minds ? Whatever
may be the true answer to this question, we must at least
concede that we have somehow or other got the idea of
beauty. However obtained, we have come to possess that
/abstract idea which, like all ideas, is profoundly distinct
from any corresponding feeling. To feel attracted towards
objects is one thing ; to have a conception of their beauty
is another and very different thing, and is an act of our
higher or intellectual mental power. The faculty of appre-
hending beauty is also a power which may be greatly in-
creased by culture. For the beauty of a Nocturne by
Chopin, or of a landscape by Turner, the average boor has,
i as we say, " no _ ears, px.q.y£5." If the reader has, by chance,
studied architecture, he can recognize that the knowledge
so obtained has opened up to him perceptions of beauty
which would otherwise have escaped him. Similarly, if
he has studied zoology, he may have become awakened
to the beauty of animals — serpents or what not — to the
charms of which he was previously insensible.
* See above, p. 197.

256

ON TRUTH.

Beauty is
f>cr/cctioii.

A'.

'//

If we recall to mind the conclusions at which we arrived
with respect to our ideas of " truth " and " goodness," we
shall thereby be greatly helped in arriving at a conclusion
with respect to the objective nature of " beauty." As just
said, we do actually possess the ideas " beauty " and " the
beautiful," whatever may be the mode in which we have
come by them. Let us, then, briefly consider some of those
objects which are generally regarded as possessing some
beauty and charm. Taking visible beauty as a starting-
point, the objects which manifest it to us are sea, land,
and sky, as viewed by night and by day, the animal and
vegetable products of the earth, man and his works. The
aspects of these objects change for us according to circum-
stances, amongst which must be reckoned the emotions
or ideas which may happen to be the most vivid at different
times. Nevertheless, whatever strikes us as pre-eminently
beautiful is generally regarded by us as approacHing per-
fection of its kind. No object which conveys to our minds
a conception of discord, deficiency, or redundance amongst
its parts or attributes, is considered by us to be supremely
beautiful. Beauty, as apprehended by our ear, is eminently
a harmony, and is the more beautiful according as that
harmony approaches perfection. The beauty of even
single musical notes is, we now know, due to tinib?^, which
is a special and, as it were, minute kind of harmony. The
same thing may be said of the charm of certain human
voices, though they may possess the additional charm of j
perfectly expressing some shade of character or some j
dominant emotion. The senses of taste and smell may !
give us very pleasant impressions, which so far may be said
to possess a certain kind of beauty ; but it is only when
objects convey to us the notion of a more or less har-
monious and perfect blending of savours and odours, or
of these combined, that they can ordinarily give rise to
any idea of the kind. The sense of touch, combined with
feelings of muscular effort and tension, may inform us of
various beauties which are ordinarily apprehended by the
eye ; and this is emphatically the case with the blind.
Feelings such as those of a most excellently polished
surface, or of a perfection of delicate softness like that

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY. 257

y.-

of the fur of the chinchilla, may give rise to qualitative
perceptions which we express by the terms " beautifully
smooth" or "beautifully soft." But, apart from sensuous
perceptions, our intellect can keenly apprehend " moral
beauty" — the beauty of some human characters and
actions. The characters and actions in which such beauty
is most apparent to us, are just those which are deemed
by us as most nearly approaching our notions of perfection.
The same may be said of the intellectual beauty of a dis-
course, a poem, or a problem. Whichever of such things
may strike us as being most beautiful, is that which most
nearly agrees with our idea of perfection according to its
kind. It would seem, then, that our intellectual appre-
hension of beauty, is a perception of ideal perfection realized
to a greater or less extent. For, however great our admi-
ration of anything may be, we can mostly conceive of an
ideal beauty still greater. Thus the idea of " beauty,"
like the idea of " truth " and " goodness," though aroused
within us through the impressions made on our senses by
external objects, is not limited to or by them. Like the
rest of the apprehensions of our higher mental powers,
our perception of beauty, though attained through our sen-
sitivity, is altogether beyond sensitivity — like the ideas of
being, possibility, necessity, and cause. Now, just as we
saw that objectors might ask us, " What is agreement or
likeness } " * or " What is the good of following the right
order .'' " so another inquirer may ask, " What is the beauty 1
of perfection ? " But here, as in the former instances, no
reply can be given but that perfection is beautiful. If 1
any one does not see the beauty of perfection, he is like a
man who does not see the good of goodness, or who cannot
understand the ideas "likeness" or "agreement." The
idea of " perfect beauty," like the ideas " goodness " and
" truth," is an ultimate idea, which is capable of apprehen-
sion, but not of analysis,
i ^Beauty also, like goodness and truth, exists, not only objectivity
I in the mind, but in the things the mind perceives. It is "-v"'""^-^"
i Jjgth^subjective and objective. It is subjective regarded ^
as a quality perceived by our mind ; and objective regarded ■-'

* See above, p. 240.

S

^//

ON TRUTH.

Beauty
absolute, not \
relative.

^

as an intrinsic quality of an object whereby that object
approximates to perfection according to the kind and sort
of thing it is.

But there is one great difference whereby "beauty^"
j_d.iffers_^irpm both "truth" and "^oodjiess^__jrhe latter
; qualities are, as we have seen, attributed to objects .ex-
pressly on account of the relations such objects bear to some-
thing else ; but " beauty " is essentially intrinsic, and relates,
at least primarily, to a thing considered in and by itself.
Nevertheless, the beauty of any object consists in a
harmony of at least its internal relations. Nothing which
was absolutely a unity, without either internal or ex-
ternal relations (if such an existence could be conceived of),
could be said to possess beauty. As to external relations,
when anything is said to be beautiful on account of its
fitness to serve some end, the word is used analogically,
since what is really meant is that it is admirable for its
utility. It is a parallel case to the analogical use of the
term " goodness " * to denote that a thing is good in a
certain way — as " good " to eat.

Different kinds of beauty are often related to utility,
but it is not the utility, but the perfection with which an
object corresponds with a certain ideal wherein the idea
i of utility enters, which makes them beautiful. Nevertheless,
an object may be said to have a relative beauty in so far
as it augments, or is augmented by, the beauty of some
other object. Thus a picturesque castle may derive addi-
tional beauty from its situation on some mountain side
i or top ; or a mountain may derive an added beauty from
\ a castle which clings to its steep sides or is artistically
Lgerched upon its summit. This relativity of beauty is an
it,CCidentaL,relativity, since beauty does not, like truth and
: goodness, essentially imply relations, save internal relatjons.^
' Can we form any conception of objective beauty altogether
apart from human perceptions? If the beauty of any-
thing consists in its perfection, then evidently — as we saw
before with respect to truth f and goodness % — those who are
theists, who are convinced that there is an Eternal Cause,
the Author of all things, with their powers and perfections,

* See above, p. 244. f See above, p. 239. J See above, p. 248.

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY.

259...

must be able so to do. They cannot regard the Author
of all perfection as Himself imperfect. Thus the^ideaa,
mth^Jlgoodness," and "beauty" are closely interrelate^..

M

though^ot identical. For that which is most good must,
we see, be perfect of its kind, and therefore true ; that
which is perfect must be good and must also be true, as '-
responding to the end of its being ; and that which is true

Imust be perfect in the way just mentioned, and therefore
good.

Since everything which exists more or less approaches ^F-veyytkmg
a perfection of some kind or order of existence, everything j
must not only be more or less good and true, but also;
have a beauty of its kind and in its degree. But if every-
thing is thus more or less beautiful, wherein does ugliness
consist ? Evidently it can have no positive existence, and
can, like evil, be but a defect and negation, as " coldness "
is but a deficiency of " warmth." Therefore nothing can <
be simply ugly in itself, but only in relation to something
else. For as one thing may, as we have seen, gain beauty
by augmenting the beauty of another thing, so a thing
which is even perfect of its kind, and therefore beautiful
in its degree, may be relatively ugly through the injury
it inflicts or the destruction it occasions to the beauty
of something of a nobler and higher kind which it, by its
existence, deforms from perfection and tends to destroy.
There are objects which develop themselves perfectly
' according to their own laws, but which, by their develop-
ment, destroy human life. A biologist and a pathologist
may appreciate the inferior perfection of this kind possessed
by an object (some diseased growth), which is none the less
relatively hideous as marring the beauty of a human body
or even occasioning the moral deterioration of a mind.

It is impossible to avoid sentiments of distaste or horror
at many objects, owing to our feelings as men ; but our
reason ought, at the same time, to teach us to make a due
allowance, in our attempts to estimate the objective beauty
of objects, for the prejudices which may result from our
tendency to regard objects from an exclusively human
point of view. Many such prejudices are induced from \
what we have been taught as children, and others are j

26o ON TRUTH.

probably inherited or at least attend us from our earliest J
years. There are persons whose reason, though they are ]
perfectly sane, is quite unable to overcome a strong feeling
of aversion to some harmless object, such as a cat or a
mouse. Prejudices of the kind are also sometimes due
to an association of painful feelings with the idea of any ;
object which may have occasioned us severe loss or acute
suffering. The perception of beauty is an intellec,tua.l
■ ; exercise of one of our higher mental powers, but, as we
!^ ' have seen, even the most abstract conceptions cannot be
^/A present to our minds without being accompanied by some
i sensuous feeling or some imagination, while — since it is the
1 same man who both thinks and feels — a dim intellectual
\ consciousness of self-existence and of such ideas as " being,"
1" truth," and " causation," accompanies mere sense-percep-
ftions and the commonest bodily actions. These considera-
tions will go far to account for differences of taste. They
will similarly account for the mixing up with our intellectual
perceptions of beauty, sensuous likings which may be
keenly or slightly felt, but which mar the distinctness of
the intellectual character of those perceptions. The same
intimate connection between our higher and lower mental
faculties seems to account for our tendency to admire,
more than they merit, some things which please our senses,
however little we may allow them to be of any high order
of beauty when our judgment is fully exercised in their
regard.

Those persons who may be inclined to wonder that
so many men should admire things of very inferior beauty,
and feel an attraction for objects and actions repulsive to
more refined minds, should recollect that ever}^thing;^^has^
p a certain amjQUJit.of beauty. As these men always seek
I a good, since everything has some goodness,* though not
by any means the highest good, so whatever attracts them
attracts them by a beauty of some kind, even though, by
yielding to its attraction, they may be diverted from seek-
ing a far nobler and higher beauty. As it is impossible
to deny that even the lowest " goods" are " good " in their
degree, so the lowest forms of beauty are beautiful after

* See above, p. 248.

TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND BEAUTY. 26 1

all, and must exercise their charm on those who happen
to be blind to beauties more objectively attractive.

The question how it is that men should be able to turn
away from their very chosen ideal, to follow what even
in their eyes is immeasurably less lovely, is the same as
that which demands the reason why they should so often
diverge from what they clearly perceive to be " the right
order." This question is the question of our power of wiJi,
to a consideration of which the next chapter is devoted/

262

ON TRUTH.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Conscious
attetiiion.

THE WILL,

Our power of deliberate attention is closely connected with our power \
of will, and our conscious experience assures us that we are not \
automata, but have an occasional power of free volition, the '
existence of which is implied in our ethical perceptions.

A^

Conscious attention — The faculty of will is the Self willing — Hypo-
thesis of automatism — // cotiflicts with our experietice — Conscious
volition — Motives — Two verbal ambiguities — What consciousness
does and does not declare as to our free-will — An objection — Free-
will and morality.

In the last chapter we recognized the fact that we have
the power of perceiving that some acts are right and
others wrong, and to distinguish between duty, utility, and
pleasure. Another most important and significant fact, of
which we may become assured by looking into our own j
minds, is the fact that we have a power of fixing our]
attention for a longer or shorter time on some object we'
have determined to examine.
\ "Ry thifi " nttrntinn " is meant an intentional, deliberate..^
self-conscious act, and not that merely sensuous, automatic
/^j '" attentionT^which was before noticed * in connection with
f our other lower mental powers. The distinction here re-
ferred to has been well drawn out by the late Dr.
Carpenter,! as follows: "Active as compared \Y\\h passive
recipiency — attention as compared with mere insouciance
— may be either volitional ox autojnatic ; that is, it may be
either intentionally induced by an act of the will, or it

* See above, p. 198. + "Mental Physiology," p. 132.

THE WILL. 263

I may be produced unvitentionally by the powerful attraction
I which the object (whether external or internal) has for
the eye. Hence, when we fix our attention on a particular
object by a determinate act of our own, the strength of the
effort required to do so is greater in proportion to the
attraction of some other object. Thus the student who is
earnestly endeavouring to comprehend a passage in ' Pro-
metheus,' or to solve a mathematical problem, may have
his attention grievously distracted by the sound of a neigh-
bouring piano, which will make him think of the fair one
who is playing it, or of the beloved object with whom he
last waltzed to the same measure. Here the will may do i
its very utmost to keep the attention fixed, and may yet
be overmastered by an involuntary attraction too potent
for it ; just as if a powerful electro-magnet were to snatch
from our hands a piece of iron which we do our very
utmost to retain within our grasp."

_l iZllosely connected with this fact of active " attention "

\ is the faculty of choice and volition, of which we are all
Tconscious. Here it may be well to remind* the reader A "j
that, in speaking of our " faculty " of will, it is not, of -
course, meant to imply that the intellect has distinct parts
or regions, but only that its power and energy may be
turned in different directions. Much difficulty is some-
times occasioned by speaking of one's " will " as if it was
something distinct from one's self — as if one could not
act directly one's self, but that a sort of machine, " the will,"
was required, by means of which one acted. But our con- The/actdty
sciousness does not tell us that we have a " will m this theSd/,
sense ; it simply tells us of our doing as we will. The i
term "mental faculty" is, then, but a convenient mode of|
denoting one set of actions. If memory is nothing more
than the intellectual self, remembering ; the understanding
is the same intellectual self, in the act of comprehending ;
and the will is the same self, willing ; it is one of our
many mental powers, and nothing more. It is no wonder,
then, that we cannot perceive our free-will in itself directly,
because, as we have already recognized,! we cannot directly
perceive our own substantial and continuous being in itself
* See above, p. 202. t See above, p. 19.

264/y ON TRUTH.

and apart from its acts or states, or our acts or states in
themselves apart from our substantial being. Just as we
cannot exist except in some active or passive state, so our
will cannot exist except in activity or in a state ready to
act. No wonder, then, that it cannot be otherwise known.
But because we cannot see the will down to its root acting
as a cause, it no more follows that its existence is doubtful,
than the fact of our not seeing our own substantial and
.continuous self apart from its states, affords us a reason for
Idoubting our own existence. Now, just as our own con-
sciousness tells us that we are continuously existing beings,
so our own consciousness tells us not only that we exer-
cise a power of choice, but also that we occasionally so
/ exercise it as to follow a course which tempts us less

y, strongly than some other causes of conduct tempts us.

-''^ We are conscious of acts of will of two different kinds —

< (f)^acts of will in which we simply follow — consciously, but
without any election or deliberate choice — the result of the
attractions and repulsions acting on us, and (2) acts of
will by which, after full deliberation, we elect to follow a

f\ course opposed to that to which the balance of the attrac-
tions and repulsions acting on us would naturally lead
us, and so make an anti-impulsive effort. It is an un-
questionable fact that men believe they have this double
power of will, for all languages express such belief by
terms of moral reprobation or approval. When a man has
notoriously lost his power of self-control and become a;
mere automaton, dominated by external and internal at-j
tractions and repulsions, we say that he is not " an account-|
able being."
Hypothesis Thcrc are some people, however, who contend that we

oj autoina- 1 1 ' ?

iisni. are all of us automata, and have no real power whatever

i . of initiation or control, however the consciousness which

Y . attends most of our actions may delude us into the belief

/y that we really have, at least occasionally, a power of will

and free initiation, undominated by the action upon us of

environing circumstances and agencies. They say, and very

truly, that some physical cause precedes all our bodily

motions, and that our every motion produces in turn physical

effects ; that some of these actions are attended by sensa-

THE WILL. h6^

tion, and that a smaller number are accompanied by con- j
sciousness ; but they go on to add that all our feelings
and thoughts are nothing more than accompaniments of vO^
such actions, and never themselves intervene in the circle
of physical activities. They compare our thought and feel-
ing to the luminosity which may manifest itself in a wire
heated by the passage of electricity through it. As such ?
luminosity accompanies the electric current, but forms no
part of it, so, they say, feeling and thought may be aroused.
by certain conditions of a physical circuit of motion with-
out affecting any part of that circuit. They deny that we
ever originate anything or can do so, and affirm themselves
(and us) to be the mere helpless spectators of a play of
energies, some of which we are foolish enough to allow
ourselves to be cheated into taking for our own spontaneous
activity. "It would be incompatible," they urge, "with
, , ,• everything we know of brain-action to suppose that the
/ "" '; physical chain of events ends abruptly in a physical void,
•'•, occupied by something immaterial, which works alone and

/so affects the other edge of the physical break — two shores

I of the material bounding the immaterial."

Now, in considering this question, our supreme criterion
must (as in other cases) be what consciousness tells us
about ourselves, checked by observations and reasonings
concerning the world around us. Our ultimate appeal
must be made to our consciousness thus informed. But
m_tiie first place, does reason tell us that even mere feel-
ings— our lower mental powers only — do not act as causes 1
in the circle of physical causation } No doubt in reverie
and sleep-walking the body is so far like a machine that
it acts mechanically and necessarily ; its actions being
necessarily determined by the arrangements and adjust-
ments of its various parts and organs. Yet its actions on

I these occasions do not take place without feelings, and
these feelings are not the mere accompaniments of bodily
actions, but are themselves guides and directing agencies
which affect and operate upon, though they do not break
through, the circle of bodily actions. The feeling of the
handle of a door or the sight of a flight of stairs may
change the course of action which the somnambulist was

^

An

ON TRUTH.

pursuing. But the movements of the sleep-walker are also
determined by a multitude of organic influences which are
not felt (though they operate through the nervous system),
but which nevertheless form part of a chain of immaterial
changes or activities which accompanies the chain of ;
physical modifications enduring throughout life. As we
have seen,* our nervous system ministers to a vast number
of bodily actions which are unfelt, as well as to felt actions,
while other actions, which the nervous system does not
and cannot control, form part of the great total of our
bodily activity. Such are the actions within the nervous
system itself, and the changes which take place in the
ultimate substance or parenchyma of the body, beyond
the reach of the most delicate nerves. Some of these
actions, we know by our own conscious experience, are felt
actions — the subjective and immaterial phenomenon (feel-
ing) taking place simultaneously with the physical (bodily)
changes.

Now, it is simply undeniable that the other nerve- i j
actions, which are not felt, may have their immaterial and .^f 1
quasi-subjective sides also. It seems to us probable that i ' \
such is the case, and we may hereafter find, when consi-
dering the matter from the scientific point of view, that
this probability rises to certainty. Indeed, we may so far
anticipate what we shall have to say later on, as at once to
make the following observation with regard to the motions
or actions of any body whatever : The matter of that body
is one thing, and is, of course, material, but its activities are
another thing, and are, of course, immaterial. Let water
which was still, begin to move. The motion itself is not a
new form of matter added to what was there before, but is
a new state of the old matter. Whatever the motion in
itself may be, it is at any rate not matter ; and the same
consideration applies to every form of activity. Thus in \
_ j^lir. Jiving body we have a chain of physical phenomena,
accompanied by a chain of immaterial energies, some parts ^
of which we know in. ourselves as conscious feeling and '
J thought. If it would be unreasonable to imagine a gap in
If the physical chain bridged over by something immaterial,

* See above, p. i6S.

^

THE WILL.

26

5$^

/^

.^'

it would be just as unreasonable to imagine a break in this
immaterial chain bridged over by something material. The

_bod^thear-undergoes changes partly physical and material^
partly psychical and immaterial; and it is these last
(whether felt or unfelt) which control atld,direct the actionsT
of the^body, though they, in their turn, are influenced by.1
physical modificatioiis. We may compare this reciprocal i
influence, to alterations caused by heat in the shape of
a ring formed of two inseparably united metals which
contract unequally at the same temperatures — alteration
in either constituent aff"ecting the compound whole, and
therefore affecting the other constituent which also forms

I part of that whole. Physical changes afl"ect our thoughts and
feelings, but our thoughts and feelings also produce physical
chajig£§.. This accords perfectly with our own experience.
We can by our own consciousness discriminate between itcmfiuu
feelings which are a mere accompaniment of physical experience.

I actions, and feelings which cause physical actions. In
sneezing and iri swallowing an object placed very far back
"in tKe'mouth, we have examples of feelings which accom-
pany automatic actions but do not occasion them. In
spitting_and scratching we have examples of actions which
we" know are done Hy us on account of certain feelings
we experience, however true it may be that such actions
are sometimes induced reflexly* without such feelings.
The argument which arises from the latter fact is not that
the feelings do not produce spitting and scratching, but
rather that the occurrence of such actions, under abnormal
circumstances, without our feeling their performance, argues
the presence, in that case also, of some other immaterial
energy analogous to sensation, though unfelt. Conscious- 1
ness tells us that our feelings and thoughts do produce ^
actions^ but it cannot possibly say what agency operates
when consciousness and consgiitience are absent. It says
nothing, therefore, against or in favour of the existence
of an unfelt immaterial energy, analogous to sensation,
accompanying reflex actions^^

As to our_fdt ^conscious actions, certainly nothing can
well be more contrary to experience than the assertion

* As to rcjlex action, see above, p. i66.

l68//.

ON TRUTH.

A'

\ that our thoughts and desires never do or can intervene
1 as causes in the events of our lives. WhaLis.„ihg^fact ?
I Suppose a servant comes and tells us that an expected
"] guest has arrived. Is it not certain that the actions we
thereupon perform are due to our understanding of what
had been said, and would be quite different if the servant
had said the very same words to us but we had not under-
stood them ? The actual mental act, the " understanding," )
is here plainl}' the cause. If we do not know this {e.g. if I do
not know that it is my intention to have this work published,
which makes me now write ; if the reader does not know that
it was an intention or wish of some kind on his part which
made him refer to these pages) we know nothing. To deny
such things would be to deny what is most evident in favour
of what is not at all so — some speculative hypothesis, or
rather an accumulation of hypotheses on hypotheses. The
truth that we every now and then act in a new way
because we have acquired some fresh knowledge, is one
of those primary truths which are self-evident.*

Having thus clearly seen that the intellect can act
.i I as a cause, we have thereby cleared- away one prelkninaty
V^ * difhculty which has been supposed to attend a belief in
'■y the action of our will — its iuterveatiDn as a free cause_
\\n thaf great system. of physical causation which surrouads
Consciotts 'us ou all sides. We have now to deal with the action
of the will as one of the highest of our higher conscious
mental powers, as distinguished from that merely uncon-
scious organic volition we have already f considered —
namely, our power of automatically uniting and co-
ordinating our pleasurable tendencies into some dominant
impulse. Such organic volition leads to the unconscious
following of the dominant impulse ; but intellectual volition
may either result in the conscious following or refusal
to follow such an impulse. The freedom of the will is the
JVeedom we have occasionally to do anything, however
small, in opposition to our strongest desire or motive. It
Is" not, of course, here maintained that we can always thus
act. We may sometimes be so paralyzed by emotion

volition.

* For some further remarks, see below, eh. xxv.
t See above, p. 198.

'Animal Automatism."

THE WILL. f26g

L

or by some physical injury as to be unable to act at all.
But consciousness tells us that we can, at least sometimes,
make an internal, mental determination as to some act.
It is only for this sort of determination that freedom is
here asserted ; not for the subsequent act, nor for the
feelings and desires which may precede or accompany such
act. The reader, if he will reflect, will doubtless be able
to recall to mind some occasion when he has made up his
mind to act in a certain way which was opposed to what
he felt most to like and seemed most to tempt him. In
considering this matter, it is necessary to guard against
some very common ambiguities of language, and to dis-
tinguish clearly between two mental experiences for both
of which our consciousness vouches.

A very little introspection will suffice to show us that Jiuiives.
we can clearly distinguish between jj^ motives which act
upon us and incline us for or against some course of action,
and (2}^the mental act of will by which we determine 1
either to perform that action or not to perform it.

A motive, and the influence which it may exert to
urge us to an act of determination (an act of will), is due
to some cause over which we have no control. However
it may be ours as a feeling, it is not ours in the sense
jof originating or springing from us. A volition or deter-
'mination, however, is the exercise of a new force entirely
distinct from the force of the motive. It is ours in the
highest degree, in that it originates and springs from us.
With respect to motives, our own mind can tell us two
things — it can often make us awar£ _of the actual effects of.
motives, but it can always make us aware of their tenden- \ A ^7
cies. Even when no act of volition results, we are still ' -
conscious of the influence of motives upon us, and can, in
many cases at least, compare their relative strengths. We
are directly aware of their tendencies and of the ways and
degrees in which they incline us to act. But to tend to
produce action, and to produce it, are two different things.
Our consciousness informs us that certain motives are
impelling us to form certain determinations ; it often dis-
tinguishes also between the relative force of these several
motives, and it proclaims that no one of these motives

W

"JO Ml ON TRUTH.

produces or necessitates the determination itself, which it
affirms to be one's own act and, as before said, a force
distinct from them. The reader is no doubt as able as
is the writer, to compare the relative attractions of some
competing pleasures, and to be sure that he has resolved
to act in opposition to the motive which seemed to promise
the fullest gratification. It is, no doubt, often difficult to
compare and weigh the attractiveness of two attractions,
but we can sometimes do so very easily. Nothing can be
easier, for example, than to compare the comfortableness
of two arm-chairs, or the sweetness of two kinds of cham-
pagne, and the exercise of a real power of choice in the
very smallest matter is sufficient to vindicate the existence
of such a power. The question as to its existence, and the
question as to its extent, are very different questions.
Two verbal Thcrc are two ambigmties of language which often puzzle

ambiguities. . . , """■; , _ mi t i /- ^

persons with respect to the Ireedom oi our will. In the nrst
^ place, " motives " are often spoken of as having been the
stronger because they have in certain cases been followed.
But of course, if the "strongest motive" is defined as "that
which the will follows," it becomes idle to profess to con-
sider whether or not the will always follows the strongest
motive : it practically becomes an inquiry whether the will
lalways follows that which actually drags it along ! Persons \
■n vho cornmjt this absurdity forget that the strength of motives
f^. qan be estimated, not only by their effects, but' also, as we
lave seen, by their tendencies and attractiveness as directly
)erceived by our own m.inds. Another ambiguity some-
"times attends the expressions " wish " andj' prefer." Thus
it has been said to be incredible " that any human creature,
under any conceivable circumstances, ever acted otherwise
than in obedience to that which for the time being was his
strongest wish " — the term " strongest " being used in the
ambiguous way above pointed out. It has also been
affirmed that "we can feel we might have chosen some
other course than a course we chose, if we had preferred
it ; but not that we could have chosen one course while we
preferred the other." Now, if the terms " preference " and 1
"wish," JLS here used, really mean "will," or "determina-f
tion," then such assertions arc mere truisms, since it isl

.J^y

THE WILL. 271

manifest, by the principle of contradiction, that " no one
can will what he does not will." But if they do not mean
this, they must mean that we cannot determine in oppo-
sition to what we feel to be most attractive to us ; and this
our consciousness clearly denies. The fundamental dis-
tinction which exists between inclinations, desires, wishes,
likings, etc., on the one hand, and the act of determining
(or making a resolution to act in some definite way) on
the other, is a distinction which requires to be carefully
borne in mind. Moreover, the distinction is plain, since
we may at the same time be acted on by two contradictory
inclinations with reference to one and the same act. But I
no one can determine at the same time in two contra-
dictory ways. We must either determine or remain unde-
cided ; and if we determine, we must determine in one
way or in another. Yet people often say that they
\ " desire " or " wish " to do a thing when what they in
reality mean is that they ivill it. They also say every
now and then that they " prefer to act in a certain way,"
I without distinguishing whether they thereby mean that it
lis more agreeable to their feelings or that they elect so
Ito act, and have therefore made a preliminary act of will
Ito perform it.
I When under the influence of contrary motives, we have what con-

sciousness

I certamly, as a rule, no consciousness 01 bemg forced to does and
\act one way or another. When inclined to perform soxno. declare as
action — for example, to give sixpence to a beggar or to/rec-wiu.
eat a cutlet — we feel we can either do it or let it alone,
though, of course, we may every now and then be over-
powered by some violent desire or aversion. We know,
in most cases, that we are not, in our volitions, compelled
by some mysterious constraint to obey some particular
motive. Nevertheless, the will cannot act without any
motive. And if we could suppose that in any given case i
there was but a single motive acting, then we should be 1
sure to follow that motive. If a motive led us to get out '
of bed, and no motive of any kind — no bodily or mental
feeling, and no caprice even — induced us to lie still, we
should certainly arise. As there is some goodness in
everything which exists, we always, when we act con-

2 72 . ON TRUTH.

sciously or unconsciously, seek some " good," though it
may be one of a very inferior order, as before remarked.*

As to the declarations of consciousness with respect to
volition, it may in one way be truly said that we cannot
iV be conscious of freedom as of something positive, because

"freedom" means "the absence of necessity or compul-
sion," and is therefore a negation or nothingness, and we
cannot, of course, be conscious of nothing or of a mere
absence. But, nevertheless, we may be conscious we are
not compelled. Similarly, as to our being conscious of
having a power to determine or not to determine, it may
be said that we cannot be conscious of such a thing,
because there is no such thing as dormant or inactive
power, activity being the very essence of power, so that
it ceases to exist as soon as it ceases to act. Waiving this
question, which is one suitable only for the section on
science, the objection tells in no way against that con-
sciousness of our freedom which is here affirmed, namely,
our consciousness that we have no perception of being
compelled, in all our volitions, to determine in one way or j
another. It may, however, be further urged that we cannot
be conscious, when two courses of action are proposed, that
we are able to choose which we will, since it is obvious we
can only be conscious of what actually exists, and not of
that which is as yet future, or what " might " be.

Nevertheless, these objections do not in the least show
that consciousness, properly analyzed, does not inform us
of our freedom.

For no one will deny that our consciousness can inform
us that we are being dragged along, or otherwise com-
pelled to go in some definite direction, if we are so dragged
and compelled. Therefore consciousness must be able to
inform us when we are not being dragged along or other-
wise compelled. Now, let us suppose that a man is con-
scious of determining to take a walk. In the first place,
he is conscious that it is he himself who determines ; and,
secondly, that he has no feeling of being forced or com-
pelled in so determining. But to make a man's act of
determination a free act, what more is necessary than to

* See above, p. 260,

THE WILL.

I know that the act is emphatically his act, and that he was
/ exempt from compulsion in making it ? Again, though it
is better not to afifirm that we are conscious of having the
power to choose which we will of two alternatives, yet our
consciousness may tell us that, when we have determined
upon anything, such act of determination is ours, and that
before determining on it we stood in the same relation to
two alternatives, e.^. to walk out or to stop at home. It tells
us, further, that we have chosen one alternative, and, at
the very same time, w^e may be conscious of a conviction
that w^e might have chosen the other ; just as, when we
have drawn one of two balls out of a bag, w^e know by
experience that we have drawn one, and have a conviction,
founded on our experience, that w^e might have drawn the
other. In one word, I am perfectly sure that, when I will
, anything, I am conscious that I myself perform the act,
j and I am qviite unconscious of any necessity compelling
1 me to perform it. This certainty of consciousness enables /
us to deny point-blank the assertion that consciousnessf
does not inform us that the acts of our will are free. ButAnoSjec-
yet another objection may here be made. It may ber"""
urged that our consciousness of freedom does~~not"~prdve \ ',;
^^anythmg, because, if the will were not free, we might, none ]
the less, have precisely the same consciousness as we have.7
It has been urged by Bayle that in the same way as oui[
consciousness of existence^does not inform us whether we'
exist of ourselves or whether we are indebted for our
existence to another, so our consciousness of our acts of
will cannot inform us whether we have produced them our-
\ selves or whether we receive them from the same cause
j which gave us our existence. He has compared man to
\ a conscious weathercock, impressed, at one and the same
time, both with a movement to the east and also an internal
inclination to turn to the east. Evidently such a weather-
cock might be under the delusion that it turned itself to
the east in accordance with its own inclination to go that
way. Now, in the first case, the assertion that the con-
sciousness w^e have of our existence does not inform us
whether we exist of ourselves, may be questioned ; and,
secondly, it may be objected to the illustration that the

T

2 74/// ON TRUTH.

hypothesis of the mind (like the supposed weathercock)
being simultaneously impressed — in a sort of miraculous
manner — with a similar desire and compulsion, is a purely
e^ratuitous hypothesis. But the case is not even fairly
stated. For granting that our consciousness of our exist-
ence tells us nothing of how we began to exist or where
we came from, our consciousness of willing does tell us
,' when it began and whence it proceeded. It cannot_be
_said with any truth, then, that -w^. are., conscious" of will-
ing in the same way as we are conscious of existing.
PThe true statement of what consciousness tells us when
i we will anything, is not that we are in a state of willing,
i but that we are in the act of willing. Indeed, our con-
sciousness tells us that no other act we perform — whether
of imagining, believing, thinking, or anything else — is
even nearly so much our own act as is our act of willing.
But besides all this, Bayle's weathercock actually points
against the truth of what lie has urged. He supposed
lE~t6 be at the same time both in the act of willing to
turn to the east, and also actually blown in the very
same direction. This is parallel with the coexistence of
a desire on the part of the reader to go to Edinburgh,
together with his being at the same time seized, carried,
to the railway station, and sent to Edinburgh by force.
In that case his volition and the direction of his journey'
would coincide ; but, nevertheless, his common sense would'
tell him plainly enough that this coincidence was due to
his having both desired to go to Edinburgh, and to his
having also been forcibly sent there. What would be true
in his case must — accepting, for argument's sake, Bayle's
illustration — be true also of the weathercock ; and so it
would know, clearly enough, that it both wished to turn
to the east, and was also carried there, " willy-nilly," by
the wind. ~

Free-iuiii Although, then, the great majority of our actions are

"'morality, either acts of merely organic volition or conscious acts
of will performed without deliberation, our consciousness
plainly tells us that we have, at^the least occasionally, a
.power of voluntarily fixing our attention, and that we can,
I and more or less often do, make a distinct act of will in

THE WILL. 275

/ opposition to a dominant impulse — an action the direction
of which is due to our own absolute and positive origina-
tion. This is free-will, and its existence within us is~l
vouched for by other facts besides the direct facts of con- [
sciousness. For, as we have seen in the last chapter, we \
have a distinct perception of right and wrong — of the merit J
and demerit of actions — as of something essentially different /
from either pleasure or utility. This perception is one off
the ultimate and primary facts of our intellectual nature.
But if there is no such thing as free-will, then all idea of
merit or demerit is a dream and a delusion. Our reason^
abundantly assures us that the common sense of mankind
is right in affirming that no moral blame can possibly be
attached to even the most injurious actions, if they are
performed by persons who have no power of choice, but
are compelled to perform them. We may shoot a criminal
lunatic when, owing to the circumstances of the case, we
have no other means of saving our lives ; but, though we
kill him, we are so far from thinking him morally culpable,
that we may feel sincere sympathy and pity for him. No
moral character can possibly attach to actions which are
not free, and if no such actions existed, then there could
be no such thing as either virtue or demerit in mankind.
The declarations of our own conscience, however, plainly
inform us that there are such things as culpability and acts
deserving moral approbation ; and the voice of this internal
monitor is, as we shall see in the next chapter, supported
and reinforced by the general judgment of mankind as
evidenced by human language. The action of will causing /
various good or bad actions to be frequently repeated,
occasions the development of good or bad habits, since, as
we have seen,* our powers and energies are increased by
I exercise. To a certain extent, there is an analogy between
our habits of life and the instinctive actions of animals,
and thus we may be said ourselves to make, or at least to
develop, some of our own moral instincts.

* See above, pp. 174, 175.

276 ON TRUTH,

CHAPTER XIX.

MANKIND.
All men have essentially the same intellectual nature.

Anthropology a transitiotial study ^ partly subjective, partly objec-
tive— Bodily uttity — A ntiquity of man — A rt — Latiguage — Count-
ing— Truth and beauty — Ethics — Religion — Unity of man's
nature — Degradation — Human creations — Infancy.

Anthro- Hitherto we have been almost exclusively occupied with
transitional thc study clthcr of our minds directly, or of ourselves as
^^arti'ysub- iudividuals, possessed of powers and faculties the nature
^pariifob- of which we have examined by introspection. In the next
jective. section we shall enter upon a brief survey of the world
around us, for the comprehension of which we have mainly.
to rely upon testimony and common sense.
1 The present chapter, devoted to the study of mankind,
I or anthropology, forms a transition from the investigation
(of matters mainly subjective, to objective studies. For, in
the study of mankind, we are still occupied with ourselves
in so far as we are investigating that human nature in
which we participate, while at the same time we enter upon
matters which can only become known to us by external
observation, reasoning, and testimony. In the latter aspect j
man forms for us a part of that external world which on I
every side surrounds us ; in the former, we have still con- 1
stantly to refer back to the phenomena revealed to us by|
introspection. *

Mankind at the present moment consists of a great
diversity of tribes and races, aggregated partly into larger
natural groups, and partly into political aggregations —

MANKIND. 277

states or nations. Each tribe, each race and group of
races, each state or nation, has, of course, its separate
history and its greater or less antiquity, its customs, senti- ,
ments, ideas, and language. But the questions which con- !
cern us here are questions which regard human beings as 1
one whole. Our object in the present chapter is to ascertain
what, in these respects, can be affirmed with the greatest
certainty of mankind generally, and it is only with this
end in view that attention will be directed to particular
facts respecting this or that people at the present time or
at antecedent periods.

/ All men agree in possessing a nearly identical bodily Boduy
\ structure ; that is to say, the differences in this respect
which exist between different races are so small that
naturalists generally regard mankind as consisting of a
single species only ; although a few men of science prefer
to consider men as constituting a genus made up of a few
species. The divergences which are found are slight
differences in average size ; in relative length of limb ; in
shape of head and prominence of jaws ; in the colour of the
skin ; in the form and distribution of the hair ; injiip shape I

of certain bones, notably those of the pelvis, shin, and
jieel ; in the development of the nose, and in the form of
the eyes ; and in the relative size of the brain, and in the
complexity of the foldings on its surface. No races of men
exist as to the human nature of which (estimated by their
external form) it is possible to entertain a moment's doubt,
nor has it been satisfactorily demonstrated that the off-
spring of cross-breeds between the more varied races tend
to become sterile hiter se. As to the past history of our
kind, we have been as yet unable to find remains which are
probably human, yet so widely different from those of
existing man as to occupy a place midway between him
and some other kind of known creature, although, of
course, this fact affords us no grounds for affirming that
such an intermediate form may not be at any moment
discovered. The antiquity of man is certainly great as \ntiqtiity
measured by the time of which we have certain historical T "'*"'
knowledge. The civilizations of Egypt and China extend i
back for more than six thousand years, but they were prob- I

278 ON TRUTH.

iably preceded by tens of thousands, possibly hundreds of
thousands, of years of unrecorded human existence. Never-
theless, no naturalist supposes man to have preceded the
ages during which the Tertiary strata * were deposited, and
those most disposed to credit him with a great antiquity
regard him as a product of Miocene times. Some natu-
ralists (as, for example, the late Professor Paul Gervais
and Mr. George Busk) have deemed the Esquimaux to be
survivors of such very ancient races. Everywhere man
exists, and, so far as we know, has existed, in a more or less
social state, at the least in the form of small tribes or
families, sometimes habitually wandering from place to
place in search of food. Cannibalism has been a wide-1
spread, perhaps once almost universal, custom. No men I
are known to exist who are ignorant of the use of fire,f •
and ancient remains prove that its knowledge is so old that
we are yet unable to affirm the certain past existence of
men unacquainted with its use, though such there in all
probability once were. All existing men supplement their
\ natural bodily powers by the use of tools and weapons,
: and this is so universal a characteristic of our kind that
it was the discovery of rude flint implements which first
V /, clearly proved the antiquity of man to have been so very
' ' I much greater than was previously supposed, and such
■ implements are still the only evidences of man's ancient \
existence over wide tracts of the earth's surface. The 1
weapons of very rude savages are commonly ornamented, i
and art in a rudimentary form may be said to be universally I
diffused. Even the unknown manufacturers of the rude, |
unpolished flint implements, made drawings in outline of
/ various animals. We owe to them the only authentic
\ representation of the mammoth, or extinct elephant,
\ scratched on one of that animal's bones. The rudest men
can distinguish between the natural and the artificial ; they
know well enough the difference between the implements

* As to these and other strata, see below, ch. xx., "The Earth's Crust."
+ In ilhistration of the ease with which errors arise from hasty observations
and inferences, may be cited Wilkes's " Narrative of the United States Ex-
ploring Expedition" (1838-42). Therein the natives of one of the islands
visited are said to have been ignorant of fire, though, as Mr. Tyler remarks,
"curiously enough," particulars are given in the same work which show that
in the same island " fire was in reality a/a»ii7iar thing.''^

MANKIND. 279

they make and objects made by nature independently of
them.
AIL -tribes of mankind, without exception, possess the Language.

faculty of rational speech. " Although," says Sir John
LubSoclc^* "it has been at various times noted that certain
savages are entirely without language, none of these ac-
counts appear to be well authenticated." The recklessness
with which assertions are made to the detriment of savage
tribes is so great, that no account ought to be received
without a knowledge of the bias of the relater, and a care-
ful criticism of his statements. Mr. Tylor makes some
excellent remarks on this subject. A Mr. Mercer having
said of the Veddah tribes of Ceylon that their communica- \
tions have little resemblance to distinct sounds or syste- /
matized language, Mr. Tylor observes,! " Mr. Mercer seems |
to have adopted the common view of foreigners about the!
Veddahs ; but it has happened here, as in many other ac-|
counts of savage tribes, that closer acquaintance has shown?
them to have been wrongly accused. Mr. Bailey, who has'
had good opportunities of studying them, . . . contradicts
their supposed deficiency in language with the remark, ' I
never knew one of them at a loss for words sufficiently
intelligible to convey his meaning, not to his fellows only,
but to the Singhalese of the neighbourhood, who are all
more or less acquainted with the Veddah patois.' " As to
another well-known traveller he remarks,| *' It is extremely
likely that Madame Pfeiffer's savages suffered the penalty
of being set down as wanting in language, for no worse
fault than using a combination of words and signs in order
to make what they meant as clear as possible to her com-
prehension." He adds also the following very important \
words, " As the gesture-language is substantially the same \ ^
among savage tribes all over. thMg^^vorld, and also among /'
children who cannot speak, so the picture-writings of 'r^-
Ravages are not only similar to one another, but are like
what children make untaught, even in civilized countries.
Like the universal language of gestures, the art of picti
writing tends to prove that the mind of the uncul

* See his " Origin of Civilization," p. 275.

t See his " Researches into the Early History of Mankind," p. 78.

+ Loc. cit., pp. 79, 80.

mtries. \
icture- I
iltured \.

2 8o ON TRUTH.

man works in much the same way at all times and every-

/ where, . . . Man is essentially, what the derivation of his

i name amon^ our Aryan race imports, not ' the speaker,'

\ but he who thinks, he who means T That is to say, the

substantial agreement amongst men lies in the common

possession of that internal, rational, mental word,* of which

the mere spoken word is the external manifestation. All

men have rational language ; that is to say, they can express,

by sounds or gestures, universal, objective, highly abstract j

ideas, in addition to the sounds or gestures by which they

give expression to their feelings and emotions. Indeed,

no tribe exists which cannot count two, say " I," "woman,"

I "dead," "food," etc. In other words, there is no tribe

Iwhich does not express general conceptions and abstract

[ideas by articulate sounds.-^

^ ,. A great deal has sometimes been made of the alleged

Counting. o °

inability of some savages to count more than five, or even
three ; but here again we have to thank Mr. Tylor for some
apposite observations.! He says, " Of course it no more
follows, among savages than among ourselves, that because
a man counts on his fingers his language must be wanting
in words to express the number he wishes to reckon. For
example, it was noticed that when ^atives of Kamskatka
were set to count, they would reckon all their fingers, and
then all their toes, getting up to twenty, and then would
ask, ' What are we to do next } ' Yet it was found on
examination that numbers up to a hundred existed in their
language." But no one even pretends that there are
i savages who cannot count two or three, and we have
\ already seen :|: what intellectual perceptions and powers are
' involved in the doing of even that.
Tfuthaiid That many savages are frequent or habitual liars is an \

"*"^' assertion which has been often made by travellers, while ■
individuals or exceptional tribes have sometimes been '
praised for truthfulness. There can be no question, how-
ever, but that all men understand what stratagems, deceits,
and lying are, and this they cannot have without possessing
a comprehension of " truth." Similarly the idea of beauty ;
is one common to mankind, although there is great \

* See above, p. 235. t See his "Primitive Culture," vol. i. p. 322.

J See above, p. 241.

MANKIND. 281

divergence of opinion as to what is beautiful. Greek art
seems to have supplied us with eternal juadels- of. human
beaut}- ; but they are not types of beauty to the Mongol or
tlTe '"Hottentot, who would also be displeased by the lip-
distortion of the Botocudos, or the head-flattening of other
tribes. Indeed, as we lately observed, it is a well-known
proverb that tastes are not matters to dispute about.
Nevertheless, men not only feel the charm of beauty,
but have that abstract, idea, as is shown by the elaborate,
however grotesque, adornments with which the lowest
savages decorate themselves, the adoption of ornaments
oPsome kind being far more universal than the adoption
of clothes. They are, then, not only attracted by what
charms their senses, but practically recognize the fact
and know the qualities which charm them. The diver-
sities of taste of different ages and different climes
in no way conflicts, then, with the assertion that an idea
of "beauty," as well as an idea of "truth," is an attri-
bute of humanity. Nevertheless, the action upon us of
QU£__aurroundings, the association of ideas, the popular
feeling about us, and the probably inherited taste of our
family, tribe, or nation, give rise to likes and dislikes, and
may blind us to many beauties, but never to all beauties.
They may modify, but can never destroy our apprehension
of the beautiful. Thus may be explained the horror often j
felt at the sight of certain objects, such as serpents, and '
the various strange fashions and deformities of different
„wild tribes ; as also the liking for deformed feet amongst
I the Chinese, and for certain bodily distortions fashionable
Vamongst ourselves. Such things are the effects of custom,
land are welcome and agreeable, through a possibly un-
conscious association of ideas ; as the sight of a tall hat
and correctly cut coat may be agreeable to certain persons
as harmonizing with their expectations and their sense of
fitness, though they would not assert that it is their per-
ception of ideal beauty in such things which pleases them.
Thus the attractiveness of objects, or our liking for them
under certain circumstances, is to be clearly distinguished,
as before pointed out,* from an intellectual apprehension
* See above, p. 255.

282,^/

ON TRUTH.

Ethics.

v..

y

M

of objective beauty, although the presence of that idea in
mankind generally is evidenced by their love of ornamenta-
tion, and by their adornment of themselves and of the
objects they live amongst and make use of The faculty
of apprehending beauty is one which, as a rule, may be
greatly increased by culture. Education produces more
and more agreement as to such perceptions. This we can
plainly see as regards poetry, architecture, painting, sculp-
ture, and it is especially manifest in the study of nature,
which gradually reveals to us new fields of beauty that
ignorance had previously hidden from our gaze.

As it is certain that sections of mankind differ in
matters of taste, so also it is notorious that men differ as
to their estimate of the moral character of certain actions.
Does or does not this show that there may be tribes of men
so low as to be devoid of all moral perceptions ? The
existence of kindly social customs cannot be taken as
necessarily proving the existence of moral apprehensions
in the absence of some intimation by word or gesture of
a judgment of the kind. Certainly no preference of the f
interests of the tribe over self, or anger at the absence of
such preference, is moral, unless there is a judgment that
such preference is right. Similarly, no amount of gross or
atrocious habits in any given tribe can be taken to prove
its entire absence. The prevalence in any tribe of practices
which shock us, will never suffice to prove the absence of
moral perception in such tribe. Men are not necessarily
devoid of morality because they draw their ethical lines in
different places from what we do. The most horrible
actions, such, e.g., as the deliberate slaying of aged parents,
may really be the result of true moral judgments under
peculiar conditions. It is said to be done by some savages
in obedience to the wish of their fathers and mothers, who
think thereby to escape further suffering in life, and to
secure prolonged happiness after death. Their parricidal
ildren draw correct inferences from Irue'-pfiticiples, but
re_^jTiista]vcn as to.iacJts*^ Men do not always a^ree
^about _the,.. application --of jnoral principles ; what--.4liejL^
fagree about is the principles Uiemse.lyeSu-,.Tiusying may
have been here and there encouraged and advocated, yet

MANKIND. p83

V

dishonesty is nowhere erected into a principle, but is
reprobated in the very maxim " honour amongst thieves."
Frightful cruelty towards prisoners was practised by the
North American Indians, but it was io\v3.rds prisoners, and
cruelty was never inculcated as an ideal to be always
aimed at, so that remorse of conscience should be felt by
any man who happened to have let slip a possible oppor- p^

tunity of inflicting torture. Men have often thought it i '■■
"right" to do unjust .^things, but have never thought \
actions "right" because they were "unjust," or "wrong" 1
^dccanse they were "just." One of the clearest ethical |
"judgments is that as to "justice" and "injustice;" and \
by common consent the native Australians are admitted
to be at about the lowest level of existing social develop-
\ ment, whilst the Esquimaux are, as has been said, deemed
\ by some men of science to be surviving representatives
• of about the oldest known races of mankind. Now,
\ concerning the Australians, Sir John Lubbock tells us *
I they consider "crimes- may be compounded for by the
\ criminal appearing and submitting himself to the ordeal
i of having spears thrown at him by all such persons as
\ conceive themselves to have been aggrieved, or by per-
I mitting spears to be thrust through certain parts of his
• body, such as through the thigh, or the calf of the leg, or
under the arm. The part which is to be pierced by a spear
is fixed for all common crimes, and a native who has
incurred this penalty sometimes quietly holds out his leg
for the injured party to thrust his spear through! So|
strictly is the amount of punishment limited, that if, in \
inflicting such spear-wounds, a man, either through care- •■
lessness or from any other cause, exceeded the recognized
limits — if, for instance, he wounded the fernoral artery —
he would in turn become liable to punishment." A yet
stronger example of savage moral perception is also
furnished us by the Greenlanders. Should a seal escape
in Greenland with a hunter's javelin in it, and be killed by
another Greenlander afterwards, it belongs to the former.
But if, after the seal is struck with a harpoon and bladder, '.
the string breaks, the hunter loses his right. If a man 1

* See his "Origin of Civilization," p. 31S.

284 ON TRUTH.

finds a seal dead with a harpoon in it, he keeps the seal /
but returns the harpoon. Any man who finds a piece of/
driftwood can appropriate it by placing a stone on it, asj
a sign that some one has taken possession of it. No other!
Greenlander will then touch it.

The inhabitants of Tierra del Fuego are, if possible,
Imore wretched savages than the Australians. Yet it is
very interesting to note that, even with regard to these,
I Mr. Darwin informs us that when a certain Mr. Bynoe
mp' shot some very young ducklings as specimens, a Fuegian
^/ ^^cl^^'^<^ i" the most solemn manner, " Oh, Mr. Bynoe !
■ much rain, snow, blow much ! " And as to this declaration,
Mr. Darwin tells us that the anticipated bad weather " was
evidently a retributive punishment for wasting human
food," i.e. for a transgression of the rudimentary moral
code recognized by the Fuegians. That the language of
savage tribes is capable of expressing moral conceptions, .
will probably be contested by no one. Similarly, no one i
will deny that when a savage emphatically calls " bad,"
an act of treachery done to himself by one to whom
he has been kind, his mind recognizes, at least in a rudi- ;
mentary way, an element of " ingratitude " in such an
action. But, in fact, the identity of intellectual nature
which we have already recognized as existing in men,
since they have all the power of language, establishes
a very strong a priori probability in favour of a similar
universality as to the power of apprehending good and
evil. The evidence a posteriori to the same end is also
abundant in the eyes of the most unprejudiced witnesses.,
* Thus Mr. Tylor observes, " Glancing down the moral ';

^f^.. scale amongst mankind at large, we find j^^tribe standing ;
at or near zero. The asserted existence of savages so \
low as to have no moral standard is too groundless to be '
discussed.'"

It would be a great mistake to suppose that very bar-
' barous people cannot be moral. Instances are easily to be
; found of the coexistence of moral excellence, accompanied
1 by the rudest conditions of life with respect to the mere
' appliances of physical well-being. Mr. Tylor tells us* that

* See his " Primitive Culture," vol. i. p. 45.

MANKIND. 285

the wild Veddahs of Ceylon, though extremely barbarous
as to their dwellings, clothing, etc., " are most truthful and
honest," and "their moriiigainy and conjugal fidelity con-
trast strongly with the opposite habits ofthe more civilized
Singhalese." Sir John Lubbock quotes the subjoined
particulars respecting the social state of the Esquimaux : *
" Captain Parry gives us the following pictures of an
Esquimaux hut : ' In the few opportunities we had of
putting their hospitality to the test, we had every reason
to be pleased with them. Both as to food and accommo-
dation, the best they had was always at our service ; and
their attention, both in kind and degree, was everything
that hospitality and even good breeding could dictate. . . .
I can safely afhrm that, while thus lodged beneath their
roof, I know no people whom I would more confidently
trust, as respects either my person or my property, than
the Esquimaux.' Dr. Rae, who had ample means of judg-
ing, tells us, ' The more I saw ofthe Esquimaux, the higher
; was the opinion I formed of them.'" That, on the other
hand, many tribes and races are bloodthirsty, cruel, and
I ; vindictive, or given over to gross licentiousness, is no doubt
? I true ; but such facts tell no more against their power of
? I perceiving and distinguishing right from wrong than does
i ' the wrong conduct of many a civilized man amongst
•: ourselves.

Mr, Tylor, speaking of the various social conditions in
which men have existed, has said,t " Their various grades
of culture had each, according to its lights, its standard of
right and wrong, and they are to be judged on the criterion
whether they did well or ill according to that standard."
Although there may be tribes of savages, as there are too
many Europeans, who seem devoid of moral feelings or
ideas, yet, so far as we have been able to ascertain, no
evidence whatever has yet been obtained either of the
existence of races of men really without any moral per-
ceptions, or of tribes possessing an inverted code of ethical
principles. A power of occasionally distinguishing an
element of right and wrong in actions, is a power possessed

* "The Origin of Civilization," p. 343.

t In the Contemporary Kevietv for June, 1878, p. 72.

^'

J

286

ON TRUTH.

by all human beings who are not out of their minds, and
even by very many of those who are in that sad condition.

Closely akin to this subject are those acts of respect
whereby men express their reverence for certain of their
fellows. Sometimes men prostrate themselves, or strike
the ground with their heads, or, having touched the ground
with their hand, they then touch their own heads with it.
Sometimes, also, more or less clothing may be removed, as
from the feet on entering a mosque, or from the head as
in the ordinary salute of Europeans. No doubt these
actions often denote a feeling of more or less apprehension,
but they may be the expression of the intellectual judg-
ment— " that man deserves reverence from me." We know i
this by our own minds, and therefore it is but reasonable \
to suppose that when other men perform the same action, ;
they may often express thereby that which we ourselves \
intend to express, and which is one form of giving expres- '
sion to a judgment of moral approbation.

Man seems everywhere and at all times, so far as our
means of observation and valid inference extend, to have
rrferTaihed ideas of religion. That is to say, man has
ad the notion that some kind of personal relations existed,
or could exist, between himself and some invisible being
or beings, malevolent or benevolent, possessing super-
natural powers, and either essentially similar to him in
iiature, or at least with powers bearing a more or less
distant analogy to human intelligence and will. Rel
may be thus defined as "a_sociolpgy of in.telligejic£a
— embracing the relations which should exist both
amongst men, and also between men and all non-human
intelligences.

The universal tendency of even the most degraded
tribes to practices which clearly show their belief in pre-
ternatural agencies, is too notorious to admit of serious
discussion ; while the widespread, and probably all but;
universal, practice of some kind of funeral ceremony
speaks plainly of as widespread a notion that the dead in
some sense yet live.

Mt\lj^r^ has on this subject observed,* " The savage |

* " Primitive Culture,"' vol. ii. p. i8.

MANKIND. 287

who declares that the dead liv^e no more, may merely mean /
to say that they are dead. When the East African is '
asked what becomes of his buried ancestors, the ' old
people,' he can reply that * they are ended,' yet at the
same time he fully admits that their ghosts survive. These
ghosts, however, were often associated with dreams which \
seem to have been not unfrequently imperfectly dis-
tinguished from waking perceptions." Concerning the ex-
istence of savages without any form of religion, he further
•. says,* " The case is in some degree similar to that of the
1 tribes asserted to exist without language or without the
I use of fire. . . . As a matter of fact, the tribes are not
I found."

It is not, of course, meant to affirm that all savage men, ]
any more than all civilized men, believe in a future life, or |
in one or many gods ; what is here affirmed is the fact that \
the reality or possibility of some quasi-social relations
between men and invisible intelligences, is so widespread
as to be a common attribute of mankind, while every now
"atrd^ th eff ' id eaFoF'f el i g i o n of a more developed kind than \
might have been expected, come under our observation. /
In a prayer used by the Khonds of Orissa we find the
following words : " We are ignorant of what it is good to
ask for. You know what is good for us ; give it us."
Some form of religious worship has been almost universal,
and, as every one knows, very generally idols have been
worshipped, sometimes with grossly licentious rites, and
sometimes with human sacrifices, followed, as in Mexico,
by a solemn act of religious cannibalism. Not unfrequently
children were sacrificed as a propitiatory offering of what
was nearest and dearest. The fact that sacrifice was very ,
generally connected with, if not evolved by, a wish to feed
the ghosts of the departed, is unquestionable ; but the idea
may have originally been, and it certainly subsequently
became, a mixed one. If food in the earliest days of man's
existence was the thing to sacrifice which, constituted
the greatest self-denial easily practised, its sacrifice might
have been partly due to this higher conception. As
Mr. Tylor justly says,t " We do not find it easy to

* " Primitive Culture," vol. i. p. 378. f Ibid., vol. ii. p. 360.

288 ON TRUTH.

analyze the impression which a gift makes on our own

feelings, or to separate the actual value of the object from

the sense of gratification in the giver's goodwill, and thus

we may well scruple to define closely how uncultured men

work out this very same distinction in their dealings with

their deities." In a Zujuprayer we find the expression,

y \ " If you ask food of me which you have given me, is it not

i iiroper that I should give it to you ? " Here the later and

I flill idea of sacrifice seems to exist in germ. That the

Australians can be made to understand our religious ideas

has been abundantly demonstrated by Bishop Salvado,*

who has long had under his care a flourishing community

of reclaimed savages at his Benedictine Abbey, near Perth,

in Western Australian

Unity of From the foregoing observations it seems clear that all

"nauire. mcu posscss au intellectual and bodily nature, which is ,

essentially one, however it may vary in minor details. We

are very apt to be misled in this respect by small matters

1 which affect the imagination, but which the judgment, on

I reflection, must own to be trivial. Even in our intercourse

• with our own fellow-countrymen, we are sometimes tempted

I to despise an intellect which manifests itself by uncouth

Q I gestures and coarse speech, wherein the rules of grammar
^i-and correct pronunciation are violated ; and.yetjhayntel-
i'lect may be quite a^^ood as our own. I have been myself
more than once surprised, when talking with peasants, to
find how correct was their appreciation even of questions
of philosophy, when once I had got over the difficulties
arising simply from our difierent modes of expressing
essentially similar ideas.

Here again we may profitably refer to Mr. Tylor, who
writes as follows : f " The languages of the world repre-
sent substantially the same intellectual art, the higher
nations, indeed, gaining more expressive power than the
lowest tribes, yet doing this, not by introducing new and
more effective central principles, but by mere addition
and improvement in detail." Speaking of the natives of

* See " Memoires Historiques sur I'Australie," par Mgr. Rudesimo
Salvado. 1854.

t "Primitive Culture," vol. i. p. 216.

MANKIND.

289

Fernando Po, he tells us,* " There are hundreds at about
as high an intellectual level as those of Europe," and he
cites examples. " Man's craving to know the causes at
work in each event he witnesses, the reasons why each state
of things he surveys is such as it is and no other, is no
product of high civilization, but a characteristic of his race
down to its lowest stage. Among rude savages it is still
an intellectual appetite whose satisfaction claims many of
\ the moments not engrossed by war, sport, food, or sleep." f
What can more plainly indicate the presence of true
intellect than the apprehension of those very abstract
ideas, " the ivliat, the hoiv, and the wJiy " f The investi-
gation of such questions constitutes, as we shall see, the
highest form of science. Mr. Darwin tells us % about the
Fuegians, who rank amongst the lowest barbarians : " I
was continually struck with surprise how closely the three
natives on board Yi.yiS. jBmgl£, who had lived some years
in England and could talk a little English, resembled us
in disposition and in most of our mental qualities. The
American aborigines, negroes and Europeans, differ as
much from each other in mind as any three races that
can be named ; yet I was incessantly struck, whilst living
with the Fuegians § on board the Beagle, with the many
little traits of character, showing how similar their minds
were to ours ; and so it was with a full-blooded negro with
whom I happened once to be intimate." The before-
mentioned Bishop Salvado has experimentally demonstrated
that, by careful and persevering treatment, the Australians i
can be made to understand some of our highest abstract \
ideas. Nevertheless, just as brain disease or deformity '
may be a bar to all intellectual manifestations, so it is
conceivable that very unfavourable conditions may render
some families of men incapable of exhibiting their essen-
tially intellectual nature. Still none such have yet been
discovered, and the world is now pretty well known.

* " Primitive Culture, " vol. i. p. 80. -f Ibid., p. 332.

J " Voyage of the Beagle," vol. i. pp. 34, 232. <

§ In the " Life and Letters of C. Darwin," vol. iii. pp. 127, 128, it is stated
that the Fuegians showed intellectual capacities for which Mr. Darwin was
quite unprepared. He is also quoted as saying, with respect to some
missionary efforts, "The progress of the Fuegians is wonderful, and had it
not occurred would have been to me quite incredible."

U

290 //,. ON TRUTH.

Degrada- But Hot Only IS the evidence that men are essentially

one in intellect overwhelming, but there is also much
evidence to show that very many of the lower races of
mankind are degraded, and have fallen from some higher
antecedent condition.

Social progress is an exceedingly complex phenomenon,

the result of many factors. No one will probably contest

the inferiority, in many respects, of the Greece of our

day to that which listened to the voices of Plato and

>y?) Pericles. " Even granting," says Mr. Tylor,* " that intel-

/V ' ,'lectual, moral, and political life may, on a broad view,

/ J be seen to progress together, it is obvious that they are

' far from advancing with equal steps. It may be taken as

I a man's rule of duty in the world, that he shall strive to

f know as well as he can find out, and do as well as he

\ knows how. But the parting asunder of these two great

principles, that separation of intelligence from virtue which

accounts for so much of the wrong-doing of mankind, is

continually seen to happen in the great movements of

civilization. As one conspicuous instance of what all

Ka^ history stands to prove, if we study the early ages of

^ Christianity, we may see men with minds pervaded by the

-^- , new religion of duty, holiness, and love, yet at the same

^ i time actually falling away in intellectual life, thus at

I once vigorously grasping one half of civilization and con-

I temptuously casting off the other."

This aspect of the question has an important bearing
upon our mode of regarding the earliest families of man.
It is plain that some moral standard might have existed
with a most rudimentary state of art and the scantiest
appliances of material civilization. Mr. Tylor also says,
" EthiiPgraphers who seek in modern savages types of the
remotely ancient human race at large, are bound by such
examples to consider the rude life of primaeyal_man under
favourable conditions to have been, in its measure, a good
and happy life."

It is difficult for us, surrounded by the abundant aids /
afforded by international communication, to realize the J
different effects which would probably result from an \

* ((

Primitive Culture," vol. i. p. 25.

MANKIND. 291 ■/^•

absence of such assistance and stimulus. This is also
perceived by Mr. Tylor, who remarks,* "In striking a
balance between the effects of forward and backward move-
ments in civilization, it must be borne in mind how power-
fully the diffusion of culture acts in preserving the results
of progress from the attacks of degeneration." Therefore
in early periods, when there was little diffusion and no
intercommunication between groups which had become
isolated, degeneration might very easily have taken place,
and these isolated groups may have become the parents
of tribes now widely spread. Indeed, it is quite true that
" degeneration probably operates even more actively in the
lower than in the higher culture. Barbarous nations and
savage hordes, with their less knowledge and scantier
appliances, would seem peculiarly exposed to degrading
influences."

After giving an instance from West Africa, Mr. Tylor
continues, " In South-East Africa, also, a comparatively
high barbaric culture, which we especially associate with
the old descriptions of the kingdom of Monomotapa, seems
to have fallen away, and the remarkable ruins of buildings
of hewn stone, fitted without mortar, indicate a former
' civilization above that of the native population." But
actual degradation is a fact which is cfirectly attested,
and which the ruins of Central America demonstrate,
i" Father Charlevire has related how the Iroquois^ having
\had Their villages burnt, did not take tTie trouble to
restore them to their old condition. . . . ^The^j^ggradatioii
of__t]ie -Cheyenne Indians is matter of Jiistory. and Lord
Milton and Dr. Cheadle came upon an outlying fragment
of the Shushway_ race, without horses or dogs, sheltering
themselves under rude temporary slants of bark or matting,
falling year by year into lower misery."

Thus we may be certain that some savages have been
degraded from a higher level, and this establishes an « ^
priori probability that many have been so. Such degra-
dation in some regions would not, however, be inconsistent
with the existence of a considerable amount- of prjQgress in
others. The New Zealanders show evidence of a possible

* "Primitive Culture," vol. i. p. 39.

292

ON TRUTH.

/.

V

degradation through changed conditions, as they doubtless
at one time inhabited a more favourable clime. They show ■
this by their use of the well-known Polynesian word " niu " /
(cocoa-nut) for different kinds of divination, thus keeping |
" up a trace of the time when their ancestors in the tropical |
islands had them and divined by them."

How soon the use even of stone implements may be
forgotten was proved by Erman in Kamskatka,* who got
there a fluted prism of obsidian j " but though one would
have thought that the comparatively recent use of stone
instruments in the country would have been still fresh in
the memory of the people, the natives who dug it up had
no idea what it was." Again, "The Fuegiansj have for
centuries used a higher method " of making fires than have |
the Patagonians. This looks very much like the survival |
of a higher culture as to this practice in the midst of a wide- j
spread degeneracy. Such an explanation is strengthened
by the following remarks % about the Fuegians : " This act
of striking fire, instead of laboriously producing it with the |
drill, is not, indeed, the only thing in which the culture of?
this race stands above that of their Northern neighbours," \
their canoes also being of a superior quality. Mr. Tylor
thinks that the South Australians may have learnt their
art of making polished instruments of green jade from
" some Malay or Polynesian source," insteaH^oTits having
survived the wreck of a higher culture, as the fire-making
act of the Fuegians has probably done. But this is a
mere possibility, and experience shows us how often such
acts are j/££. learnt even when we know for certain that the
opportunity of learning them has been offered. Thus our
author himself remarks § that the North Americans never
learnt the art of metal-work, etc., from the Europeans of
the tenth century. That the belief in the persistence after
death of the same social conditions as have existed during
life may sometimes also be a result of degradation, is
shown by the spread of modern " spiritualism," which has
widely propagated that belief amongst people whose
ancestral creed taught a much more elevated doctrine.

* " Researches into the Early History of Mankind," p. 207.

t Ibid., pp. 24s, 246. X Ibid., p. 259. § Ibid., p. 205.

MANKIND. 293 /^f

A curious proof of degradation of one or another kind I
is exemplified by the ceremonial purifications practised by •
the^jCafits, Respecting these Mr. Tylor remarks,* " It is |
to be noticed that these ceremonial practices have come I
to mean something distinct from mere cleanliness. Kafirs
who will purify themselves from ceremonial uncleanness
by washing, are not in the habit of washing themselves or *
their vessels for ordinary purposes, and the dogs and the vT
cockroaches divide between them the duty of cleaning out C
the milk-baskets." Therefore here one of two things must
be conceded. We have either a case of degradation and
degeneration from earlier cleanliness, or else there must
have been an original spiritual meaning in certain primitive
washings, pointing to a higher religious condition than that
at present existing amongst those who practise the cere-
monies in question.

Degradation may have its origin either in moral and
intellectual changes, or in changes in the material conditions.,,..
of_life. No error can be greater or more fatal than that of \
supposing that philosophical, speculative. vigw^jlQ^nstJ ^ '^
carry with them far-reaching and inevitable practical con-,
sequences^ A generation of men, nurtured in the noble -^
traditions which have descended to us from the days of ■
Athenian culture, has tastes and sympathies due to that
nurture, which we are too apt to suppose must be permanent
acquisitions such as no subsequent intellectual changes
:an possibly destroy or degrade. But the history of man-
kind teaches us a very different lesson. The \yorld is sown
broadcast with the tracesjDf civilizations-whieh liave passed-.
away, and bears many a scar due to the triumph of igno-
rance and brutality over relative refinement and culture.

While adverting both to what has thus been lost and ^Hu,„an
what has been gained during the various national advances^
which history records, we wish the reader to note howl
great has been the creative faculty of man, above all, in
the domain of art. In our survey of the lower worlds of
life, we shall see that every living organism is, in a sense,
a creiaiprj in so far as it builds up its own body, trans-
forming surrounding substances into its own substance.

* " Primitive Culture," vol. ii. p. 393.

i

J

294

ON TRUTH.

If even the very lowest creatures are thus marvellously
endowed, how much more so are such creatures as nest-
building insects and birds ? Man, however, has a power
of creation out of all proportion to that possessed by any
inferior organism. The ideal conceptions of the painter,
the sculptor, the musician, and the architect, are universally/
recognized, by those best able to appreciate them, as veri-i >
table creations of genius which their most painstakingr'
successors may vainly attempt to rival. The great signifi4
cance of this remark will become manifest in the fifth!
and last section of this work. \

We seem, then, if the arguments here stated are valid,
to have full assurance that allmen, apart from pathological
conditions, have that same essentially intellectual nature
which self-consciousness reveals to us as existing in our-
selves. It may, however, be objected that all human
beings are not rational, because infants are not so ; they
at first show less signs of intelligence than most mere
animals do when adult, and only slowly grow to manifest
the distinctive mental powers of human beings. To this I
it may be replied that the true, though temporarily hidden, j
nature of any germinating organism — egg or seed — is plainly |
shown us if we are able to watch the outcome of its deve-|
lopment. Judged by this rule, the infant must be deemed I
to possess a nature so far essentially rational that it is sure
soon to make that rationality quite plain on the occurrence
of constantly recurring and very simple conditions, as
is a matter of daily experience. We have already seen *
^at how early an age the human intellect manifests itself —
long before the infant is able to speak. We cannot, of
fcourse, know by direct knowledge the state of our own
minds when we were so young, because no efforts enable
us to recall such early experiences. But we know by con-
sciousness the meanings of our own gestures now, and we
can compare them with those of other adults and of chil-
dren of all ages, and the only rational way to judge of the
mental nature of the very young is by such observations,
and not by vague speculations as to what might have been
our condition at a time about which we can know nothing.
* See above, p. 227.

/><

MANKIND. 295

(Thus judged, mfants must be allowed to be potentially:
Lriitional. Children can not only be easily taught, but they
soon spontaneously exhibit signs of possessing that intel-
lectual nature which is unquestionably the common pro-
perty of full-grown men and women. The significance of
these preliminary remarks will appear later on, when,
having briefly reviewed, in our next section, the world
about us, we pass on to the consideration of those pro-
blems which it is the task of science to elucidate. In
treating of the world, as we now proceed to do, we can, of
course, only touch upon points which more or less closely
relate to the purpose of the present work, and afford data
for determining those questions to which the attention of
the reader will be directed in our final section/

SECTION IV.

THE WORLD.

CHAPTER PAGE

XX. Inorganic Nature ... ... ... ... 299

XXI. Organic Nature— Plants and Animals .. 315
XXII. The Functions of Organisms ... ... 324

XXIII. The Animal Faculties ... ... ... 342

XXIV. The External Relations of Organisms ... 367

( 299 )

CHAPTER XX.

INORGANIC NATURE.

Our world is a planet attendant on a star, and is a theatre of physical I
activities. It possesses a chemical composition which it shares |
with the surrounding universe, while its crust is composed of j
materials the arrangement of each part of which is intimately -,
related to antecedent material conditions.

/\^^

T/i£ earth as a cosniical body — Physical activities — Chemical substances
— Crystals— Air and water — Aqueous action — Ocean currents —
The ear til's crust — Fossils.

\
A CERTAIN general knowledge of the conditions, powers, \

and properties of the world about us has now become the

common property of all moderately educated people, and ; -■

it is not our intention to do more here than remind the l^

reader of certain facts included in such general know- I

ledge. So much, however, it seems requisite to do in

order that there may be the needful data ready to hand

for reference, when we come to consider certain scientific

problems which will be spoken of in the last section. The

_eartJi, as every one now knows, is_a sphere, revolving on
its axis daily and accomplishing an annual revolution, and
it ys a pTanef, i.g. one of those spheres revolving round
y, y the sun, which, together with their satellites, certain

*comets and clouds of metcoroids, constitute our planetary

ior solar system — itself one of the many systems of suns
(with or without attendant planets) which make up the
visible stellar universe. The various bodies of this universe, TheeaHh
which vary immensely as to size, are continually changing "^/(Z,^^"'""
their relative positions according to the laws of mechanical

3oo>

y

ON TRUTH.

motion together with the force of gravity, the result being
that the members of such planetary systems as ours,
revolve round their suns, or central bodies, in ellipses,
variously attended by satellites revolving in turn, in ellipses,
around their respective planets. In some distant systems
there may be more than one sun. Our solar system itself \^
is rushing at the rate of ten thousand miles every half- ^
houjiio-lhe direction of the star tt, in that apparent group :
of stellar bodies which is named the constellation Hercules. \
The known universe, or cosmos, is made up of bodies
variously composed of solid, fluid, and gaseous matter,
which bodies differ greatly in density, some of them being
much more dense than our earth, while others are com-
posed of nothing but gases and vapours oj^reat tenuity —
those stellar aggregations of matter known as " neBuTfe."
The cosmical bodies shine by self-emitted light, as does
our sun and the variously distant stars ; or by reflected
light, as do the planets and satellites of our solar system ;
and doubtless multitudes of planets of other systems,

ithough some planetary bodies themselves are more or
less self-luminous. Light travels at enormous speed (over
186,300 miles in a second) through whatever intervenes

"BeFween, and connects together all the planetary and

'stellar bodies. A universally diffused highly elastic sub-
stance of extreme tenuity, termed "ether." is commonly
said to be thus interposed, and we are taught by physicists
that minute waves of a certain kind traversing this ethereal
medium constitute light — waves of different lengths giving
rise to our perceptions of different colours.* According.,
to this view, wherever light can travel there must be ethef,-; . p
and it can travel through every known interval of every J |\L*
,^ other substance, even including the most perfect so-called ; ^
p- vacuum which we can make. It follows, therefore, that /^
P»y^we have no evidence of the existence of a real vacuum

"anywherej but rather that there is and can be none. The |
distance from us of the stellar bodies, the so-called
" fixed stars," being enormous — that of the nearest star
being about 200,000 times more distant from us than
the sun — the time which light must take in passing from

* See above, p. 99.

INORGANIC NATURE. 30I

them to our eyes is to be measured by years — three years I
from the nearest star. Even the light of the sun takesj yy^^'
more than eight minutes to cross the ninety-two thousand
"seven hundred miUions of miles of ether which are inter-\
posed-.-li£tween it and us. The surface and atmosphere of '
the sun is a region ofThtense heat and activity. Amidst
^ames of hydrogen thousands of miles high, metallic vapours
jpre continually ascending, to be condensed and then fall
down in showers of red-hot metal. The sun is 852,900
miles in diameter, and is 1,252,700 times the volume of the
earth ; while the largest of the planets, Jupiter, is but 1233
kimes the earth's volume.

The planets of our system, with their satellites, move
round the sun in one direction ; but there is an exception in
the case of the satellites of Uranus, which move in a retro-
grade direction, and in planes nearly perpendicular to the
ecliptic. The planets all revolve on their axes during their
revolution round the sun, and generally their attendant
satellites revolve round the planets they attend more slowly
than such planets revolve on their own axes. An excep-
tion, however, occurs in the case of the planet Mars, one of
the satellites of which circulates round it in less than one-
third of the time that planet takes to revolve on its own
axis.

The descent of meteorites upon the surface of this physkai
planeT give us the plainest proof that the same chemical '"'*''"'^'''-
substances exist in the solar system external to this earth
as~e'xist in the earth itself But that careful dissection of
light which is known as " spectrum analysis " shows us that
a similar identity of materials exists between the substances j
hich compose our earth, and those which enter into the j
composition of even the most distant stellar bodies yet dis- (
covered. Thus the action of gravity and the energies known
as light, heat, mechanical motion, and chemical action, as
also, doubtless, those activities spoken of as electric and
magnetic, seem to be diffused throughout the visible
universe. These physical activities are spoken of as the
" physical forces," and brilliant modern discoveries have
shown that there is a quantitative equivalence between the
different successive activities of the same or of different

302 ON TRUTH.

bodies. Thus the disappearance of a definite amount of
motion is followed by the appearance of a definite amount
of heat, and so on ; and the works of our most distin-
guished physicists are replete with wonderful examples of
this quantitative equivalence between many of the activi-
ties which bodies of all kinds exhibit.

As might be expected, though some of the planets of
our solar system differ greatly from the earth in density
and other physical conditions, there is a substantial re-
semblance between them which is sometimes carried very
/2 \ far. Thus our near neighbour, the planet Mars, appears to
Ar i be so like our earth as to have its tracts of land and sea

^i*'^\ and its caps of polar ice comparable with those of our own
\ globe. The cosmical body nearest us (only 238,818 miles
I distant) — our own satellite the moon — is, however, singu-
I larly different from the eartTT, in that it appears to be
. devoid bothof w.atar-9.nd air; or if such substances exist in
' it at all, they seem to have retreated into the interior of
; our satellite, and to give no signs of their presence on its
much-scarred surface. The moon revolves only once on her
own axis while revolving round us. Our own world's annual
path round the sun varies slightly in two directions ; alter-
nately approximating more nearly to, and diverging further
from, a truly circular path. The direction also of the earth's
axis slightly varies, each pole thus describing a small circle
in a very long period of time ; that is to say, in nearly
twenty-six thousand years. This movement is spoken of
as the " precession " of the earth's axis or of the
" equinoxes." The combined result of these two alter-
nating changes is to expose each pole of the earth in turn
to a maximum of the solar heat which it can receive, and
then in turn to the greatest cold of which it is susceptible.
Chemical Thc earth itself is a sphere, slightly flattened at the

, poles, made up of a number of substances which, with rare
I exceptions — such as gold, carbon, sulphur, and a few more
• — can be resolved into other apparently component
materials, and these into others, and so on, till we come to
certain substances known as "chemical elements," because
as yet they cannot be * further reduced, and seem to be

* See above, p. 147.

. oui
/ ow

stibstances.

INORGANIC NATURE. 303

• ultimate substances. The few substances which may be
\ met with in a pure and unalloyed condition — such as
gold, sulphur, etc. — are examples of such " elements." Our
atmosphere consists of a mixture of the gaseous elements
oxygen and nitrogen, with some carbonic acid gas
(resolvable into the elements oxygen and carbon), a cer-
tain amount of ammonia (resolvable into the elements
nitrogen and hydrogen), and the vapour of water. Water '
itself, when pure, is entirely resolvable into the two -
elements oxygen and hydrogen ; but it also ordinarily ■
contains some carbonic acid, ammonia, carbonate of lime, H'
flint in solution, and sundry salts. Carbonate of lime is I
resolvable into lime and carbonic acid, and lime itself is
further resolvable into oxygen and the metallic element
called calcium, Flint can be resolved into oxygen, and a
metal called silicon, as the rust of iron can be resolved
I into oxygen and iron. Thus_fljnt may be sai^..lQ ^Jjiea
I "rust" of sili co n^ a n d_ H m g. .a-i^r us t,' L jo f , calcium .
^^""^^he solid earth, with its envelopes of water and air,
constrt^es \\h;it we niean by "jtTie inorganic w^orld,'' while.4 V^-
" the organic world " comprises the totality of plants and
animals. The inorganic world, therefore, includes all rocks,
metal, and softer solid substances which compose the
earth ; water (both as it exists in seas and rivers, and in
the form of minute particles floating in the air) ; and the
gases and vapours of our atmosphere.

The process of resolution of substances into their
elements (analysis) shows us that the elements which
, compose each kind of substance are combined in one exactly
1 definite manner, as estimated by weight. Certain substances
I when placed in close proximity to certain other substances
j undergo a spontaneous transformation, as if the elements
!of one had an overpowering attraction towards the other.
In this way there takes place either a reciprocal inter-
change of elements,* or one substance is deprived of one of
its elements, so that only a single element remains in the

* Thus, if we place together nitrate of silver (AgNOj) and hydrochloric
acid (CIH), the chlorine will leave the latter to unite with the silver of the
former and produce chloride of silver (AgCl), while the hydrogen of the hydro-
chloric acid will unite with the nitrogen and oxygen of the nitrate of silver, so
forming nitric acid (HNOJ— a process of reciprocal exchange.

Cryitals.

304 ON TRUTH.

place of the substance decomposed. These chemical
changes not only occasion warmth,* but may be greatly
facilitated by warmth, and apparently also by the presence
of other substances which are themselves undergoing
analogous processes of change. This process of inducing
chemical change by the mere proximity of substances un-
dergoing some other chemical change, is called " catalysis."

Very many substances, to say the least, can exist in
three states — solid, fluid, or aeriform ; as in the familiar
instance of water, which may be in the form of ice, fluid
water, and vapour. Even the gases oxygen and nitrogen
have been liquefied by cold and great pressure ; and car-
bonic acid gas has also been both liquefied and solidified.

Solid substances may or may not be in the form of
crystals. A " crystal " is a solid mineral substance of _a
definite geometrical figure, being bounded by surfaces, or
I/aces'^ which meet so as to form sharp edges and ^Dgks.
fThe angles formed by these faces are constant in each
crystalline substance, though there is no constancy as to
the size of the crystals, or the proportionate size of their
several faces. Snow is one very familiar example of a
crystal. If a crystal be suspended in water which holds
in solution as much as it can hold of the same material
as the crystal, then if the fluid be evaporated, fresh solid
material may be deposited from the fluid on the surface of
the crystal, which will thus increase in size. If a crystal
so suspended be mutilated by having one of its solid angles
removed, then such injury will be repaired by the deposi-
tion of fresh material from the fluid. Crystals may be so
formed as to adhere together, shooting out into an arbores-
cent manjier resembling some vegetable growth — the frgjQjds
of ferns, or ^yhatzii^ — as in the familiar example of "frost"
upon a window-pane. Some masses of mineral are formed
of minute aggregated crystals, as is the case with marble.
Another mineral may be of similar chemical composition
but not crystalline, as chalk. But the same chemical sub-
stance may exhibit another diversity. It may exist in one
of two conditions called "crystalloid" and "collo[d"
respectively. Some substances (as, for example, " peroxide
* See above, p. 159.

INORGANIC NATURE. 2>^S f^y

of iron ") may be either in the form of a jelly and insoluble
in water, or they may be in a state in which they are quite
soluble in water. Moreover, they may be made to pass from
the latter state to the jelly-like state by adding a minute

, quantity of certain substances.* It ji^s in the insoluble

land jelly-like condition that these substances are called
" colloids," and their condition spoken of as " colloidal."
It is in their other condition that they are spoken of as
" crystalloids." Now, " colloids " are not only jelly-like I
and insoluble in water, but they absorb and transmit water
readily through their substance. Crystalloids are the
reverse of all this, and not only so, but are specially
remarkable for their diffusibility ; while colloids can hardly
at all diffuse themselves through the substance of other

■f colloids. Colloids, once more, not only readily absorb

I water and swell, but they also readily yield it up again by

I evaporation.

There is also a peculiar interaction of fluids which is tol
be noted. If two fluids of different densities are so placed'
within a vessel that they are separated by a median porous
partition, then some of both fluids will pass through the
partition, but more of the less dense fluid will pass through
it than of the other. The consequence is, that if the level
of the two fluids be at first the same on each side of the
partition, then the level of the denser fluid will rise, while'
that of the less dense fluid will sink. This process of fluid

.' transference is called " osmosis," and it is facilitated if the

i partition be a colloidal substance.

\ As to the nature of the ultimate components of the Air and

1 1 r 11 • water.

aeriform and watery envelopes of our earth, the tollowmg
points may be noted : 0.xygcu...\s a colourless gas, which
has a remarkable tendency to unite itself with many other Jr
substances ; and every combustion (attended with the
evolution of light and heat) which takes place in the air is
an energetic act of such union, while a gentle union of the
kind (such as takes place when iron rusts) may be called

I a slow combustion. Oxygen, however, though thus the
great burner and aider of combustion, is itself incombustible.

* E.g. of an alkaline carbonate. This resembles the action on food of j
digestive fluids (see above, p. 159).

X

;o6

i

i

f

Aqueous
action.

///

ON TRUTH.

f

Nitrogen, though indistinguishable from oxygen in appear-
ance, has the very opposite properties. It is extrenaely •
indisposed to unite with other elements, and, so far from |
promoting combustion, it stops it — extinguishing a flame i
plunged into it. It is remarkable also for the extreme in- \
stability of the compounds of which it forms a part — such as -
gunpowder, gun-cotton, nitroglycerine, and iodide, sulphide,
and chloride of nitrogen, which form a series of substances
successively exploding with greater and greater violence and
readiness. Nitrogen, nevertheless, is itself incombustible.!
Carbon is a substance which remains solid even at the
highest temperatures yet applied to it, and thus differs
extremely from oxygen and nitrogen. It is very abundant
as an aeriform rust — i.e. united with oxygen or " carbonic
acid gas " — but it is rarely found as an element. In that
state, nevertheless, it may exist in no less than three con- \
ditions. One of tlvese is a crystalline condition known as j
tKe^iamond. In another condition it is known as black- «
lead or graphite. Its third condition is what we call I
charcoal. Sidphur also may exist in two conditions — \
crystalline and non-crystalline — and may be made to pass
alternately backwards and forwards from one condition
to the other by means of slight changes of temperature.
Another e\&men\., phosphorus, can also exist in two distinct
states. One of these is waxy or crystalline, the other is
what is called its aniorphous condition. Substances which
can exist in two or more solid forms are said to be " dimor-
phic " or "polymorphic." H^'dvageji, is a gas which is in-;
flammable and burns, but does not support combustion. It(i
js the lightest substailge kjI9^"' ^^^ forms a long series of |
compounds with carbon. They are substances which have
for the most part weak affinities, readily disuniting into
their constituents when heated by themselves. Hydrogen
is very widely diffused, since any given quantity of water
can be resolved into twice as much of this gas, by volume,
as of that other constituent of water, oxygen. It exists
enormous quantities in the sun, and is known to exist
distant stellar regions^

The vapour of zvater is excessively abundant in our
atmosphere, especially at a high temperature. Fluid water

in/

I\'

LYORGAXIC NATURE. 307

has been the great agent in foniiing the surface of the
earth as we see it, and by its unceasing circulation over
that surface renders the land a habitable abode for animals
and plants. Almost alone amongst inorganic matters in
its retention of its fluid form under such wide differences of
temperature, it may, considering all the functions it per-
forms, be called the blood of the earth. Water, whether
salt or fresh, is ever resolvable into the same relative quan-
tities of its two constituent gases. These are not m.erely
mixed together (as are the oxygen and nitrogen of the air),
but are so chemically fused as to constitute a new sub-
stance, distinct from either, which may be called the rust of
hydrogen. It always contains a greater or less quantity of
other substances, and amongst them a considerable quantity
of air mixed up within it, and rain-water gathers in its
descent some of the air's soluble constituents, including
carbonic acid and ammonia. The water of each river con-
tains, of course, the salts of the springs which feed it, and
it also contains the matters which it has dissolved out from
the soluble materials which it has met with in its course.
One of the noteworthy ingredients it thus acquires are, as
before said, carbonate of lime * and flint in a state of solu-
tion. Sea-water notoriously contains much salt with other ^
chlorides and sulphates, with some ammonia and, an
element not hereinbefore mentioned, iodine. The earth's
surface is being continually modified, and its elevated parts
destroyed, by water in the form of rain, streams, or sea-
waves, and by the disintegrating action of ice, which ex-
pands as it freezes within the cracks and fissures into which
it may have made its way. By these means land is being
continually torn down and carried ofl" to be deposited either
in estuaries, or at the mouths of rivers, or in the bed of the
ocean. The mass of matter thus carried to the sea by
some of the largest rivers is enormous. It has been calcu-
\ lated that the Ganges carries down every year as much
\mud as could be carried down by 730,000 ships, each of

* The Thames can-ies past Kingston daily not less than 15 14 tons of solid
substance, mainly derived from the oolites and chalk of Berkshire, Oxford-
shire, and Gloucestershire. Two-thirds of this mass consists of carbonate of
lime, and thus 140 tons of that substance are on an average annually removed
from each square mile of the Thames basin above the town referred to.

308 ON TRUTH.

, , 1400 tons burthen. The deposit carried down by the
{\| ■ Mississippi has formed a delta * extending over an area of
' 'h 30,000 square miles, and is known to be, at least in some
parts, several hundred feet in thickness. Deposits of the
same kind are, of course, carried down by rivers into fresh-
water lakes, where deltas are also similarly formed. Evi-
dently solid objects, which may fall into such a river, will
some of them be carried towards its mouth and then buried
beneath successive layers of mud. Should the deposits
become hardened into rock, we might expect to some-
times find such objects therein enclosed. Experience abun-
dantly justifies such an expectation. Even impressions
made on the once yielding surface by hailstorms, have been
preserved by subsequent delicate layers of deposit which
have become hardened, the shape of the impressions
showing us to-day the direction in which the wind blew
A at some unimaginably distant period of time. It has been
kJ^ calculated that it must have taken 13,500 years (at the
» // present rate of deposit) to accumulate the thirty-nine feet
of Nile sediment beneath the statue of Rameses, and
17,000 years for the corresponding portion of the Nile
delta. The eroding action of water is notorious. When
the gradient of a river is considerable (as is commonly the
case in the upper courses of rivers), its excavating action
tends to be considerable also, and if such a gradient be
maintained to the coast, the river will excavate a deep
channel bordered by heights to its mouth — as in the Tyne
and the Tweed. The excavation by a river of its own
valley may leave here and there, high up in sheltered posi-
tions, accumulations of drifted materials, marking the levels
at which the river flowed at successive periods.
>icoi,s The lowering of the earth's surface by the wear and

tear of water, is more or less counterbalanced by a slow
or rapid upheaval of other parts of its surface through
volcanic action. The number of active volcanoes in the
world may be estimated at above three hundred, and somj
or~these give forth vast quantities of lava. For example,
in the island of Hawaii a burning deluge of lava broke

!* A triangular accumulation of land at the mouth of a river is called a
"delta," from its resemblance in shape to the Greek letter so named.

INORGANIC NATURE. 309

forth, in 1840, from below the crater of Kilauea. It spread '
from one to four miles wide, and reached the sea in three ;
days, at a distance of thirty miles, and for fourteen days it ■
plunged in a vast fiery cataract, a mile wide, over a precipice \
fifty feet high. The slow upheaval and depression of dif- ;
ferent tracts of the earth's surface has been proved by direct '
observations. The Andes have been rising century after
century at the rate of several feet, and the Pampas, on the
; east, a few inches only.* The land of Scandinavia, towards
j North Cape, rises at about five feet in a century, and very
I many other instances could easily be adduced of slow secular
i elevation. Soundings often give good reason to suppose
both that some rather distant islands once formed part of
an adjacent continent, and that other islands which by their
proximity might be supposed to have been previously
united, have not really been so, but have grown nearer
tocjether through some recent elevation of coastx

But however considerable here and there such changes o^gg^
may have been, it appears that the great ocean and conti- "'-T^
nental areas have been, on the whole, permanent. From
the two extremely cold regions of the globe — the greater
ice-cap of the south pole and the much smaller one of the
north pole — -ocean currents extend in variously modified
ways towards the equator, while warm currents diverge
from the equatorial region towards the poles. The finer
debris of the land, carried incessantly down into the seas
by all the rivers of the world, is, when the action of the
river water ceases, caught up by these ^reat marine currents,
and swept to places far beyond the more apparent tidal
action. It is only when the seas are enclosed, or when
the ocean currents are weak, that the transported materials
are quickly precipitated and form deltas. The interest
of these ocean currents consists not only in their trans-
porting action, but also in their influence on land climates.
Thus, while the cold currents sweeping down from the
Greenland seas carry ice and cold water southward
along the east coast of America, to lat, 40'^ N.. the Gulf
Stream and equatorial current carry warmth with their \
waters northward to western Europe, even to North Cape. \
* Sir Charles Lyell, " Principles of Geology."

/

lO

ON TRUTH.

rhe cartlis

'/.

Did a belt of land extend between Britain and Green-
land, so as to intercept the passage of this warm stream
(as the land bounding Behring's Straits stays the passage
northwards of the warm currents of the Pacific Ocean),
we should then see the mountains of Scandinavia (like
those of the coast of Greenland in nearly parallel latitudes)
permanently invested with ice and snow. With respect
to the volujiiaxif..the DG£an compared with that of thejand
above its level, it would seem that the fornier is more than
forty;_idm^_in_e,xcess of the latter.

T]ie earth's crust is made up of superimposed masses.
of s^tmta. which are various, more or less horizontal, layers
of different materials, and consist generally of consolidated
mud which has been deposited (in the way described) in
fresh or salt water lakes, or in deep or shallow seas. But
not all rocks are due to the agency of water. Many masses
have been ejected in a molten state from volcanoes, and
solidified either on the land's surface or beneath the sea,
and, therefore, under great pressure. These rocks, which
are thus due to volcanic agency, are called igneous rocks.
Those formed under sea pressure are termed plutonic ;
otherwise, they are called volcanic. Igneous rocks are not
generally stratified, and they may be of all ages. Some,
like those which form parts of Snowdon and Cader Idris,
are very old. Others, like those of Etna and those which
cover Herculaneum, are relatively quite recent. Deposits
may have undergone five kinds of change. They may
have undergone a mere process of drying (as with sand) ;
or drying and pressure (as with sandstone") ; or heating and
pressure (as with some limestones) ; or with chemical action
in addition (as witHthe higHIy'crystalline rocks, such as
gneiss) ; or a change may have been produced by infiltration.
Thus rocks may be infiltrated by iron, lime, or silica, pro-
ducing ferruginous, calcareous, or silicious sandstones and
conglomerates.

The strata thus forming the crust of the earth are
supposed to be from sixteen to eighteen miles thick ; but
iTS" boring has yet extended even one mile in depth,
and, indeed, has scarcely exceeded three thousand feet.
The total depth, therefore, is purely a matter of inference

iY

8^

INORGANIC NA TURE. 3 I 1

from the arrangement, superposition, and inclination of
the different strata, as seen at or near the surface. The
various strata were, of course, deposited at successive
times, and the time of the deposition of each is called its
"_period_^or'' epoch." But for subsequent disturbance, the
most ancient strata would always be deepest, and super-
position would, in all cases, plainly indicate relative novelty.
As it is, we have often to examine carefully in order to
discover the real order of deposition, but this once dis-
covered, the depth is equivalent to age, and vice versa. .
The uppermost and most recent accumulations of sands,!
clays, and gravels, form what is called the "recent deposits ;" '^
and these are not counted as forming any part of the ;
proper geological jtrata, and are not represented in ordinary .
geological maps, but are there disregarded. The strata 1 | ^1
beneath these deposits are_classified in three great groupsTT
belonging respectively to three great e£Ochs. The deepest \ ^
and most ancient group comprises the strata called primary, ^
or pcilcsgzoic^ The second or middle group of strata is ^
called secondary, or virsor.oic. The uppermost and least f
ancient group consists of strata called tertiary, or cajjwF'"^'^ /
The " recent deposits " really belong to this last-mentioned /
group, and we may be said to be still living in the tertiary 1
period, which has succeeded the only two earlier periods I
of which as yet we have evidence — the secondary and the I
primary periods or epochs.

Each of these three great groups of rocks is made up
of a certain number of subordinate groups of strata, or
" formations." Thus the Palceozoic, or primary rocks, are
made up of the Laurentian, Cambrian, Silurian, Devoman,
old red sandstone. Carboniferous, and Permian formations.
The Laurentian rocks are very largely developed in Canada,
and are some 30,000 feet in thickness. The Cambrian rocks
are from 15,000 to 20,000 feet thick, and are well seen in
the Longmynds of Shropshire, and near Bangor, Harlech,
and St. Davids, in Wales. The Silurian strata (sandstones,
sl-iales, clays, limestones, and igneona, ..ro^ks) are of very
great thickness, and form a large part of Wales, tlie lake
district of England, southern Scotland, and some parts of
Ireland. The Devonian formation is exemplified in Devon

312 ON TRUTH.

and Cornwall, and the old red sandstone rocks of Ireland,
Scotland, and Wales. The Carboniferous formation in-
cludes the carboniferous limestone and the coal measures
the latter consisting of seams of coal, sandstone, and shale
such alternations indicating oscillations of level. TTie
Permian formation is of moderate thickness, and mainly
consists of magnesian limestone associated with marly
slates and beds of conglomerate. In England, it is chiefly
, found skirting the coal-fields from Durham to Derbyshire.
The Mesozoic, or secondaj^y iP^r»Viiii are made up of the

Triassic, Jurassic, and Cretaceous formations. The first
(Trias) — which includes strata known as the " new red sand-
stone"— extends in England from Devon to Yorkshire, and
is largely developed in Cheshire. The Jurassic rocks con-
tain what are known as the Lias, the Oolite, and the Purbeck
beds. The Lias extends from Lyme Regis to Whitby.
The Oolite also extends between the north-east and south-
west of England. To the upper portion of the Jurassic
rocks belong the Solenhofen slates of Bavaria. The Cre-
taceous formation includes the wealden, the lower and
upper greensand, the gault, and the chalk. It is well seen
in the south-east of England, where it is considered to
represent the delta of a large ancient river, in Kent, Surrey,
Sussex, and the Isle of Wight. The v/ell-known chalk,
ranges from Lyme Regis to Flamborough Head, and forms
both our i^£2rJ"^l ft""^ ^'^lltll ^(?W"! The chalk terminates
the series of Mesozoic formations, and a great break exists
between it and the tertiary formations which follow. This
break, however, seems to be partially bridged over, in
North-Western America, by certain beds known as the
" Lignite series." The Cainosoic, or tertiary rocks, consist
of three formations — W\q Eocene, the Miocene, and the Plio-
cene. Eocene rocks underlie both Paris and London, and
form very important deposits in North America. Thej
Miocene formation is widely distributed in Europe and the I
North American continent, but is very slightly represented |
in Britain. The igneous rocks which form the .Giant's \
Causeway, the islands of StafTa and Mull, and others,
belong, however, to this group. The Pliocene formation
is extensively distributed in Europe, Asia, and the United

INORGAXIC NATURE. 313

States. In England, it is represented by the Norfolk and
Suffolk "crag." The later Phiocene rocks — the so-called
Quaternary strata — include the deposits found in the an-
cient caves of Europe, and those thrown down during what
is known as the Glacial epoch. That a period of intense
cold prevailed, in geologically recent times, over northern
and central Europe and the greater part of North America,
is shown by the evidences of prodigious glaciers, which
have scooped out valleys and ground and scored the surface
of hill and dale in those regions. Blocks of stone, called
" boulders," are often found there scattered about, and
seem to have been transported by ice, sometimes from very
great distances.

The various strata which thus form the crust of the fossUs.
earth contain, in different degrees of rarity or abundance,
certain objects which are known as " fossils." Amongst
the mass of materials carried down by rivers and de-
posited in their course, or in deltas, or at the sea bottom,
are numerous relics of organisms which once lived. Therein
have been preserved fragments, or the entire frames, of
animals and plants, which have generally been transported
for a greater or less distance, and have rarely been entombed
in the spots where they lived or died. The plant-remains !
consist generally of detached leaves, or branches, or fruits, 1
or seeds. Sometimes they consist of tree trunks which |
have sunk as they became water-logged. Sometimes they I
consist of parts of tree trunks which have been buried /// 1
situ. When some organic relic thus becomes entombed, it|
often happens that particle by particle of the vegetable or!
animal substance, as it is transformed by chemical changes, '
is replaced, particle by particle, by mineral matter (ferru-
ginous, calcareous, or silicious), till we have a complete
representation — technically called a "pseudomorph" — of the
original in the new material. Sometimes, however, we find
that plants or even animals have been so enclosed by the
mud investing them, that their original chemical elements
have been wholly, or in part, preserved, though changed in
their arrangement. Altugctlicr, five forms of " fossils " may_
be discovered : i. Objects per .se, i.e. objects which are little
changed, or wherein change is subordinate to retention, as

314 ON TRUTH.

in bones which retain the greater part of their own mineral
matter and some of their animal matter also ; 2. Substitutes,
i.e. objects the substance of which has been changed by a pro-
cess of replacement, as in the minerajization just described ;
3__ Mr/pldsJi.G. deposits which present the impressions made
by beings, all other evidences as to which have disappeared
— as in preserved footprints, and in moulds of shells or bones
which have themselves vanished ; 4. Casjs of moulds, i.e.
solid matter which has taken the place of the organic crea-
tures which first made the " moulds " and then disappeared.
These " casts of moulds " must have the very shape of the
living beings (or parts of living beings) which themselves
made the moulds ; 5. Casts of hollow strtictures^x.^. mineral
masses which have been found within, and have filled the
interior of some shell, some hollow bone, some brain cavity,
or similar natural hollow of which they are interior casts,
as " moulds " are exterior casts of different organisms or
parts of organisms.

From this statement as to the evidence of the past
existence of living creatures which are found imbedded in
portions of inorganic nature, we may pass on to the con-
sideration of the organic world of animals and plants now
living on the surface of this planet.

3^5

CHAPTER XXI.

ORGANIC NATURE — PLANTS AND ANIMALS.

All organisms, save the very simplest, are constructed on one of two
distinct types — one animal, the other vegetal. Man is formed on
one type of one small order of animals, from certain species of
which he differs much less than those species do from others of
the same order.

/#

Biological classification — Vert eh rata — Tunicata^ Arthropoda, and Mol-
lusca — Worms, Echinoderms, Ca'lenterates, and Sponges — Protozoa
— The lo7iiest plants — Phanerogams — Animal, vegetal, and human
structure — Common structure of organic nature.

The study of organic nature — the world of animals and
plants — constitutes the subject-matter. q£ "the. science .'orT
living organisms," or " biology." It is a vast field of in- L^
"quiry, }-et one which here need but be lightly touched \
upon, since our inquiry is only concerned with it so far as
it may serve to elucidate our own nature and our powers
of apprehending truth. On account of the great number Bhiopcai
of kmds of livmg organisms, it has been tound necessary tion.
to classify them in an orderly series of subordinate groups
successively contained one within the other. Animals and
plants are respectively classed in two supreme groups, to
each of which the term " kingdom " is fancifully applied,
and the arrangement of the sub-divisions of the animal
kingdom constitutes one of the very best types of all classi-
fication. It is divided into certain very large groups, called
siib-ki)igdoms, each of them being again divided into classes.
Each class is further sub-divided into more subordinate
groups, called orders, each order into families, and each

J

t6 on truth.

family into genera ,- while each genus consists of one or
more species.* The classification of plants is essentially
similar to that of animals. Every animal and plant has a
scientific name consisting of two words ; the first denoting
the genus to which it belongs, the second pointing out
which species of that genus it may be. Thus, e.g., the
"Wood Anemone" is called Anemone sylvestris, which
signifies that it is that species of the genus " Anemone "
which is to be distinguished as " sylvestris."

Vertebrata.] -pj^g highcst sub-kirigd.om of animals ( Vertebratd), con-

, tains those which have a spinal column throughout life,-f- and

consists of the five classes, beasts, birds, reptiles, batcaphians
^(frogs, efts, etc.), and fishes. The class of beasts {Alaninialia)
Ms made up of a number of orders, amongst which those of
man and the apes, the lemurs, the bats, the whales, the
edentates,^ the pouched beasts,§ and the monotremes,|| may
be here mentioned. The facts stated, in Chapter XII.,
concerning the structure of the human body, may serve to
dispense us from giving any detailed anatomical descrip-
tions here, seeing that the various characters by which
the different groups of Vertebrates diff"er, are to be found in
all works on comparative anatomy. IF The order Primates,
which contains man and the apes so like man in bodily
structure, is made up of three families. The first includes
man only ; the second comprises the apes of the old world ;
and the third family, those which are confined to America.
Amongst the old world monkeys are the specially man-like,
or "anthropoid" apes, namely, the chimpanzee, gorilla,
orang, and the long-armed apes. These animals difter
I less from man in structure than they differ from the
lowest kinds of monkeys. Of the order of lemurs may be

* The question as to the real existence and nature of species, genera,
families, orders, etc., will be considered in Section V. chap. xxv.

t Thus differing from the Tiinicata. See below, p. 318.

% These are the sloths, ant-eaters, arniatlillos, pangolins, and the aard-vark,
or orycterupus, as well as the extinct My/odon, iMegatlicrium, and Glyptodon.

§ Or marsupials. They include the true opossums of America {Didelphys)
and almost all the mammals of Australia.

II Monotremes (the order Alonotrciiiata) include only the duck-billed platy-
pus or Ornithorhynchus of Australia, and the echidna of Australia and Ne\v
Guinea. These two animals differ greatly from all other beasts. Even the
nature of their milk-glands has been tound to be exceptional.

T[ See, amongst others, the author's book on " The Cat " (John Murray).

ORGANIC NATURE — PLANTS AND ANIMALS.

jJ /

mentioned the aye-aye, the slow lemur {Njciiccbiis), and
the potto {Perodicticiis), which last has the index finger
f quite rudimentary. Of birds there are upwards of ten
thousand known kinds, the more exceptional of which are the
. ostrich and its allies, including the Apteryx of New Zea-
j land. The class of reptiles is divided into four well marked
I orders oF existing species, namely (i) crocodiles, (2) lizards,
(3) serpents, and (4) tortoises. In the class Batrachia (frogs,
toads, efts, and ophiomorpha),* we meet with animals
which in some respects differ notably from the creatures of
all the before-mentioned classes. Certain kinds of efts,
such as the Siren and MeiwbrancJius of North America,
and the proteus of the caves of Istria and Carniola, not
only possess lungs, but also other organs known as "gills "
or " branchise." These are delicate processes of skin
attached on either side of the throat to certain solid arches,
called " branchial arches," separated by clefts, and which
correspond with the " visceral arches and clefts " before
noted t as existing for a time in the human embryo. As
in that embryo, so in these batrachians, the arteries which
proceed from the heart take their course along these arches.
1 There they branch out and richly supply the gills with
I blood, and then pass on to the main artery of the body
5 which runs backwards beneath the spinal column. In the
half-developed frog, or tadpole, the conditions are for a
time similar, though at first it has no lungs, while, as it
I becomes fully formed, it ceases to have gills. Amongst
1 fishes we find no lung, save in one or two very exceptional
1 forms (CenrtodnsSi-nd Lepid-osu'ej}),^^^ there are always gills
■ attached to branchial arches along which the blood vessels
are distributed in essentially the same way as in the gilled
efts. In beasts, birds, reptiles and batrachians, the skeleton
is formed of bone and the backbone of vertebra;, as in man ;
but in many fishes — sharks, rays, lamprey, etc. — the skele-
ton is cartilaginous. In some — as eg. the sturgeon — a
continuous soft structure takes the place of vertebrae, re-
calling to mind the notochord % of the human embryo.

* Limbless creatures, in external shape like earthworms, found in the
warmer regions of the globe.

t See above, p. 1 73. % See above, loc. cit.

3i8 O.V TRUTH.

This is especially the case in the lancelet {^AmpJiioxus),
which is by far the most exceptional of all fishes with respect |
to the simplicity of its structure, and differs from all other I
Vertebrates in having no distinct head, and only a tubular
heart.

We may next pass to a small sjib-kingdom, TUNICATA,
jviiidx-ift€-l«4es. .certain marine -organisms, of very simple
l^tT'Titl^rfj kn.g}£I) ^^.,^'^'^^•.'^^"''".^'^1 "*" ^-'^^^-'tiiaixs. Some kinds
Tare noteworthy because, when young, they are provided
with a long tail in which there is a kind of temporar}'
spinal column or notochprd,* having on its dorsal side (as
in vertebrates) the central part of the nervous system. The
sub-kingdom which is by far the richest^in species isji.amed
Arthropoda, and includes^aU^insects, scorpions, spiders,
and tics, centipedes, shrimp'like creatures, barnacles, and
"ver}- peculiar parasites called RJiizocephala. Arthropods
general!}' have the body formed of a longitudinal series of
more or less similar segments, many of which are provided
with a pair of " lateral appendages," which may be nearl}-
all alike, as in the centipede, or may, as in the lobster, be
variously modified in different regions of the body to form
feeling-organs, jaws,t legs, or paddles. Thus we find in this
sub-kingdom the best examples of "serial symmetry."
None of these creatures have an internal skeleton. The
sub-kingdom Arthropoda, and all the rest of the lower
animals are formed on quite different types of structure
from that which chaj^acterizes the Vertebrata. On this
account all these lower animals are often spoken of as
Iiivcrtebrata, although some groups of them may differ as
much or more from others, than they differ from Vertebrates.
lAjoathef^Ai'ge' assemblage of animals, constitutes, the sub -
lkinsdiittLjld.PLLU.SCA. It contains the class of _cuttlg,i^
[fishes,, the rnaiy5jO^^I.j£ta, or Cephalopods, together with
[snails, whelks, limpets, the oyster^jiyas^, and a multitude
of allied forms. They are animals the bodies of which
are not segmented. They present hardly a trace of serial
symmetry, and even lateral symmetry is often wanting.

* See above, p. 17J.

t The jaws of an Arthropod do not bite vertically (as do those of a Verte-
l)rate), but laterally. There may be three succes.sive pairs of true jaw.-^,
followed by others which are partly like feet, as in the lobster.

ORGANIC NA TURE^PLANTS AND ANIMALS. 3 1 9

Though generally possessed of a shell, there is no internal
skeleton, save that in a few forms — e.g. the cuttle-fish — there
is an internal shell, and a cartilaginous case partly protects
what maybe called the brain, and so far simulates a" skull."
Another group of animals the position of which is not yet
certainly determined, are the Brachiopods, called "lamp-
shells " because they bear a fanciful resemblance to an
ancient lamp.

A great variety of classes (including man)' kinds of '':''?"■;'•
worms'), the arrangement of some of which is also far from derms.Ca-
finally settled, need here be referred to but in the very «««' •''/''»^"-
briefest manner. Such are the Annelida (earthworms,
leeches, etc.), the Bryozoa (or Polyzoa) — minute animals
living in compound aggregations, such as the well-known
sea-mat {Flustra) of our coasts, a number of internal
parasites and some allied forms which are not parasitic,
and, lastly, the wheel-animalcules which form the class
• Rot if era.

One sub-kingdom of animals is termed EcHlNOpERMAA
and includes all star-fishes^ sea-urchins, brittle-stars, seaj^,
cucumbers, and crinoids. Although essentially simple in
structure as regards systems of organs, Echinoderms may,
nevertheless, consist of a prodigious number of juxtaposed
; parts — as e.g. does the sea-urchin. The well-known animal
i called the sea-anemone {Actinia) is a type of the sub-
's kingdom Cgelentera, in which are classed all the coral
I animals and other zoophytes, including the Hydra. The
|last-named animal consists of a sack containing but one
cavity, with one aperture — the mouth — surrounded b}-
tentacles. The body wall consists of two layers, each
cornposed of a multitude of cells, those of the outer layer
sending prolongations inwards which appear to consist of
nervous and muscular tissue in a most simple condition.
Coelenterates and many adult Echinoderms have the
parts of the body so arranged as to diverge in different
directions from a centre ; thus affording us an example of
a new kind of symmetry, which may be distinguished as
radial symmetry. Th^ gpQ^^^^^J-OATiIX?,^},have the bod}'
(which contains many silicious, calcareous, or horny parts)
also formed of two layers of cells, amongst which some

■X20

ON TRUTH.

contractile fibres and nervous cells have been asserted to
exist. Sponges are very exceptional, in that they generally !
possess a greater or less number of inhalent and exhalent '
apertures. In a certain anomalous parasitic animal called ;
Dicyenia, the body consists of an outer layer of cells sur- i
rounding one large central cell extending the whole length '•
of the body,
i^ The lowest sub-kingdoni of reputed animals, the PRO-
TOZOA, is made up of the animalcules known as Infusoria,
minute parasites termed Gregarinida, and a multitude of
forms known as the Rldzopoda, which have the power of
projecting and retracting portions of their body called
pseudopodia or " falj^J^eet." In all the Protozoa the body
I is most simple. Very many of them consist of but a single
cell. In those even which are multicellular there is but a
simple aggregation of cells, and no definite arrangement of
them in two layers, still less is there any formation of dis-
tinct "tissues." The most beautiful of the Rhizopods are
the marine Radiolaria. Another group, the Flagellatci, con-
sists of minute creatures which swim about by means of one
or two whip-like processes (whence the name of the group)
which resemble the vibratile cilia before spoken of* in
describing the human body. Last of all comes the group \
of the ^]ORAmNIFjlKA,^so called because most of them !
protrude their pseudopodia through minute holes, or " fora-
mina," in the calcareous shells which enclose them, and
which they secrete and build up, although they otherwise
consist of nothing but a minute particle of apparently
structureless jelly or protoplasm.f Some species, however,
are naked. Amongst these is the Amcvba, which so singu-
larly resembles a white corpuscle of human blood. J None
of the Protozoa can have organs answering to those of any
higher animals, because the organs of such higher animals
are formed of distinct tissues. Nevertheless these uni-
cellular organisms sometimes possess parts which simulate
the organs of their betters — cavities with pulsating walls,
and parts which can suddenly contract as if formed of
muscular tissue. If these creatures are truly animals, they
are the lowest members of the animal kingdom, and lead
* See above, p. 158. f See above, p. 147. + See above, p. 157.

plants.

ORGANIC NATURE — PLANTS AND ANIMALS. 32 I

us by narrow steps to the lowest members of the kingdom
of plants.

The lowest plants constitute the two great groups oine lowest
I wa_ter_wee_ds^(y^4'''^) and of moulds iFujigi). Amongst the'
I latter are those minute organisms, Bacteria. Very many
I of the lowest plants are unicellular, like Protococms, which
moves about by means of vibratile cilia, while Volvox, a
spheroidal aggregation of cells, swims by the action of the
cilia which extend outwards from its component particles.

The seaweed Caulerpa, which abounds on some coasts, j
and whereon turtles browse, consists but of a single cell,
though its shape is so complex that it simulates in outline
the fern called BlccJinuin. The microscopic plants known
as Diatoms and Desmids are Algse, as also are those
thread-like organisms which, on account of their remark-
able and as yet unexplained movements, are called Oscilla-
torice. Many of the lowest plants closely resemble some of
the Protozoa. This is especially the case with Myxomycetes
during a portion of its cycle * of life.

Lichens, liverworts, scale-mosses, CJiara and Nitella,
true mosses, lycopods, horsetails, and ferns, together con-
stitute the rest of the lower primary division of plants —
the Cryptogams, or flowerless plants. The other primary
. division — Phanerogams — is subdivided into the Gyiiino- Phanero-
I sperms, a small section to which all firs, pines, yews, and *'^""'
k cycads belong ; and the Angiospervis, a group including all
I the plants which possess conspicuous flowers. Two plants >
I are, for our purpose, specially worthy of note. These are 'frp
I the sun-dew (B/vsera) and Venus's fly-trap (Dioium). The ^■
former grows on bogs, and has the upper surface of its
foliage leaves furnished with long glandular hairs which
can discharge a tenacious fluid. The latter has foliage
leaves which terminate in two rounded plates joined by a
median hinge. Very strong bristles project from the
margin of each of the rounded plates just mentioned. The
actions of these structures will be considered further on.

At the base of the organic world are a auraheiLQX,§im£le\ Q^
or^amgiiis,. alike devoid of nervous or muscular tissue and | -j:
of any permanent mternat digestive cavity. These lowest V-

* See above, p. 164, and below, chap, xxii., "The Cycle of Life,"

Y

132

z//

ON TRUTH.

S

fi

A nhna.1,
vegetal, atSli
human \
structure

Common
structure
of organU
natu7-e.

the kin^fjp"^ ^f r]f^"^° Thence, as it were from a common |

starting point, the two kingdoms of organic life may be said ',
to diverge. Xhe-animal .kingdom .advances in complexity 1
from a structure resembling a double-walled sack with a :.
permanent digestive cavity, and possessing nervous and f'
muscular tissue. The_vegjgtable kingdom advances in com- |
plexity in a quite diverse mode, building up a variously ■
branching axis with foliar organs (modified leaves), but 1
always devoid of any alimentary cavity or any form of!
muscular or nervous tissue. \

Man, vastly as we shall find him to differ from every
other organism with respect to his higher faculties, is
nevertheless, when considered exclusively as regards his
bodily structure, only a genus of one of the three families
which constitute the order Primates.

We have now, as a conclusion to this chapter, to note
those characters of form and structure which distinguish
l(the living, organic world of nature — all plants and animals
considered as one great whole — from that inorganic nature
to a consideration of which the preceding chapter was
devoted.

Multitudinous and varied as are the creatures which
compose the organic world, they nevertheless exhibit a
very remarkable uniformity of composition and essential
structure. Creatures the most various, from man to the
smallest fungus which may attack his crops, exhibit a
fundamental* uniformity in their physical composition.
Every living creature has a body which, however soft it
may be, however much fluid it may contain, or however
hard and dry it may appear, is never entirely fluid, and is
always partly so.f Every living creature consists in part
(and that part is the most actively living part) of that soft,
viscid, transparent, colourless, nitrogenous substance, " pro-
toplasm." X of which every living creature is, at first, entirely
composed. Herein we have a first difference between the
organic and the inorganic world, and this involves a second

* Not absolutely similar, however, as is proved by differences of activity —
notably of development.

t In the body of a jelly-fish, no less than ninety-nine parts of a hundred
are composed of water.

\ See above, p, 147.

ORGANIC NATURE — PLANTS AND ANIMALS. 323 ^

difference. For we thus see that a great uniformity of I
chemical composition runs through all organic nature, since j
every organism is mainly resolvable into the protoplasmic ;
elements, oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and carbon, whereas
inorganic bodies may consist of the most diverse elements
from those which compose organic bodies, and of a greater
or less number of them — often of but two, and sometimes
of but one. There is also a yet further chemical differ-
ence. This consists in the diversity of the proportions in
which the constituent elements appear to be combined
in organic and inorganic bodies ; being very much more
complex in the former.

Again, crystals are bounded, by plane surfaces, or

Maces," which meet at definite angles, which respectively

f characterize different mineral species ; while with one or

two exceptions (such as spathic and haematite iron, and

dolomite) mineral bodies are not boundedHBy curved lines

i and surfaces. On the other hand, curved lines and surfaces

1 are the characteristic boundaries of all anixoai and. vegetable

jbodies. Again, if a crystal be cut through, its internal

(structure will be seen to be similar throughout. But if the

body of any living creature be divided, its interior almost

always exhibits definite structures made up of different

substances ; while even the very simplest living creature

shows, when thus divided, a variety of minute, distinct

particles, called granules, variously distributed throughout

its interior. Othe? still more important distinctions which

characterize the organic and inorganic worlds respectively,

consist in differences in actions and active powers, and will

come under our consideration in the next chapter on the

'JjiliaiQQS," that is th^ aGti¥ities,.oi:^£g*baisa4S,,

In every separate organism, whether animal or vege-
tal, there is a continuity of structure comparable to that
which we have seen * exists in the human body. Similarly,
also, each such organism may be considered, like the body
of man, to consist of one more or less large and internally
complex and differentiated cell, which has arisen, by multi-
form processes of cell-division, from those primitive cells,
or portions of cells, which constitute the starting points of
both asexual and sexual__generatiqn.
See above, p. 151-

ON TRUTH.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE FUNCTIONS OF ORGANISMS.

^^

i

The functions of sustentation and reproduction are common lo all
organisms, but differ widely in plants and animals. Those of
muscular motion and feeling are specially animal faculties. Man
is functionally, no less than structurally, a true animal, pre-
dominantly resembling the other members of his order of the
class Mammalia.

Properties of protoplasm — The cycle of life — Income and outcome —
Spontafteons generation — Structure and function — Distinctions
be twee ft animals a?id plants — Formation of organic matter —
Plants do not feel — Alimentation — Circulation, respiration., secre-
tion, and reproduction — Development — Heredity — Matt and other
organisms.

We have just seen (in the last chapter) that the whole
organic world of plants and animals differs from the
inorganic world by certain structural characters. It is of
course, however, by their active powers that organisms
mainly differ from inorganic bodies. The powers exercised
by — in other words, the functions common to — all organisms
will, then, here first be shortly passed in review, and after-
wards the more special activities possessed by organisms
of different grades will be briefly adverted to. It may be
well for the reader, before applying himself to the present
chapter, to reperuse what has been said* about "the activi-
ties of the human body," since the active powers possessed
by all organisms and those peculiar to the higher animals,
have necessarily been already noticed in what has been
said about man. We have already seen f that the human

* See above, chap, xiii., p. 154. f See above, p. 147.

THE FUNCTIONS OF ORGANISMS. 325 j

body is made up of systems of organs, of separate organs,
of tissues, and of cellular elements ; the latter being those
protoplasmic units forming the ultimate parenchyma of
the body, and many of them resembling not a little those
lowly organisms known as Ama:b<2 and Flagellata* We
have also seen, in our thirteenth chapter, that certain acti- |
vities, or functions, must be possessed by our body's proto- ?
plasmic elements, since otherwise assimilation, respiration, "
secretion, and motion, as carried on by the human body,
could not there be carried on. Evidently our body could
not live and grow had not its ultimate constituents also a
power of augmenting in size and spontaneously dividing,
whereby the augmentation of the whole mass of the body
is effected. t

These facts being premised, the gpw_e.rs exd4i§ivejy^£9s-|/'r<vs^r//Vi^y-
.sessed by the organic world, and commoiy to-aJ4--€>rgaiiisi»sy""''''^ '^""'
AvitKoirrexceptioni may next^i),e .statedv As has been said]
more than once, all organisms contain or consist of proto-
plasm, and it is noteworthy that this very unstable sub-
stance always contains the explosive element J nitrogen.
The differences, then, which exist between the properties of '■:
l\ living protoplasm and all inorganic matter are as follows : — I
^ y "*" "i. Currents are commonly established in inorganic \
' mixtures by differences of temperature, but in a portion
of protoplasm, an internal circulation of currents ma}"
continue in definite lines (as indicated by particles within
it), without altering the external figure of the organic
particle in which they occur.

2. Inorganic bodies expand with heat, or through im-
bibing moisture ; but living protoplasm has an apparently
spontaneous power of contraction and expansion under
certain external conditions which do not occasion such
movements in inorganic matter.
I 3. Under favouring conditions, protoplasm has, and

therefore organisms have, a power of performing chemical
changes, which result in producing heat far more gently^
and continuously than it is produced by the combustion
of inorganic bodies.

4. Protoplasm has also the power of converting certain

* See above, p. 322. t See above, p. 163. % See above, p. 306.

^6///

ON TRUTH.

adjacent substances into material like itself — into its own
substance — and so, in a sense, creating a new substance,
as in nutrition.*

5. It has thus the power of growing, not by a mere
external increment — as a crystal so grows when suspended
in a suitable medium — but, as before pointed out, by a special
process of internal increment known as " intussusception." t

6. Protoplasm, after thus augmenting its mass, has a
further power of spontaneous division whereby is augmented
the mass of the entire organism of which such protoplasm
forms a part — whereby, that is, it grows.

7. It has also a power of freeing from its own sub-
stance, substances both different from its own and from
substances adjacent to it — that is, a power of secretion.^
Thus it is that, since every living creature consists at first
entirely § of protoplasm, every other kind of substance
found in every animal or plant comes, and must come,
from protoplasm, and is formed, and must be formed, by
its agency.

8. Living protoplasm has, further, a power of exchang-
ing gases with its environment — notably of absorbing
oxygen and giving out carbonic acid, as in respiration. ||

9. No particle of protoplasm can persist unchanged like
many inorganic substances. In order that it may continue
to subsist, it needs to be supplied with material which it
can assimilate — in other words, it must feed.

10. Lastly, protoplasm has a natural power of motion
under stimuli,1[ and is capable of altering its external con-
figuration by alternate protrusions and retractions called
" amcebiform " motions.** Similarly it may so move its
parts as to produce a flowing motion of its whole mass ;
as in the movement of Myxomycetes,\^ and as in that of the
protoplasm contained within the cells of the plants Chara
and NitellaXX which flows round the interior of such cells
with a movement sometimes called "rotation " and some-
times "cyclosis."

* See above, p. 159. t See above, p. 160.

X See above, p. 162. § See above, p. 322.

II See above, p. 161. \ On a stimuli, see above, p. 155.

** See above, p. 157. tt See above, p. 321.

XX See above, loc. cit.

I-

THE FUNCTIONS OF ORGANISMS. 327

/

These exclusively vital powers of living particles of pro-
toplasm are also, of course, possessed by thej^ery simplest
umcel^l^lar^^^jantsand anirnais. More complex organisms
likewise, of course, possess them, and they possess other
powers in addition, by which they also differ from the whole
inorganic world.

Their most important difference...oC.X40ctionj consists in The cycle
the innate tendency they possess to^ undergo a definite ''-'^^'"'^^"

:le of change. The inorganic world is commonly, and
indeed truly, spoken of as a world of dead, relatively inert
matter ; and yet it is a world of active and incessant
change. For, apart from oceanic waves and currents, the
flow of rivers, and the circulation of winds ; apart from
volcanic action and changes in the shape and elevation
of parts of the earth's solid crust, terrestrial matter con-
tinually thrills with electric, magnetic, thermal, and chemical
changes, as well as probably with many others, which
■ neither the senses nor wit of man have yet enabled him
to detect. But however vast or complex the changes
which take place may be, they never take place in any
non-living body in a regular and recurring order. They
never form a series returning upon itself and reproducing
any state which we may have selected to regard as the
initial state in a "cj^cle" (or reciirrjn^ series) of changes.

Very different is the behaviour of living bodies. Thus,
a bird's egg will in due time give rise to a bird, which
may again produce an egg ; or a silkworm will become
a chrysalis, which will disclose itself as a moth, the moth
will lay eggs, and these, when hatched, will once more pre-
sent us with the form of the silkworm — our starting point
in the second case. It is the same with a fruit, the seed
of which may be sown, producing in its turn a plant which
grows and flowers, the flower maturing into the fruit once
more. The changes, then, which take place in living bodies
tend to form a^cjt'cle. In order, however, that they should
thus recur, certain conditions are necessary. Thus, as every
one knows, a bird's egg will not be hatched without heat,
nor, if duly heated, will it be hatched if it be kept in an
atmosphere of nitrogen or of carbonic acid, or in any atmo-
sphere which is deprived of either oxygen or moisture. It

J-'

ON TRUTH.

will not be hatched even in a suitable atmosphere, if its i
shell be coated over with grease or any other material I
capable of cutting off its contents from the action of the!
air external to it. The cycle of changes will also be in-f
terrupted if the hatched bird be deprived of needful nourish-
ment or warmth, and analogous adverse circumstances will
interrupt the series of changes in all cases. Thus the cycle
of changes which take place in living bodies can take place
only under certain fixed conditions — such as a certain
temperature, the access of requisite gases, a certain
degree of moisture, and enough nutrition. But let such
conditions continue to be supplied, and the cycle of changes
appears capable of indefinite recurrence. If, however, per-
fectly similar conditions be supplied to organic bodies
which have ceased to live, a regular series of changes also
takes place ; but such changes do not form a cycle — they
never return to the point from which they set out. They
are the changes of decomposition, and ultimately result
in the formation of inorganic substances, such as water,
ammonia, carbonic acid, sulphuretted hydrogen, various
earthy salts, etc. Thus, the existence of an innate tendency '
to go through a definite cycle of changes when exposed
to certain fixed conditions, forms a distinction, not only
between mineral substances and living organic bodies, but
also between the latter and organic bodies which are dead.
Inorganic substances tend simply to persist as they are,
and have no definite relations either to the past or to the
future. What a mineral may have been, or what it may
come to be, is nothing to its present being — which is its
only being. But every living creature, at every stage of jV^"
its life, regards both the past and the future, and thus lives ''^•
continually in a definite relation to both of these, as well
as to the present. Every stage of its cycle of life, just
because it is a cycle, is conditioned by the anterior states
which alone have made its existence possible, and refers
to future states for which it is in active preparation. Thus,
the life of all organisms — as will more fully appear in our
twenty-fourth chapter — is ever in close relation with external
circumstances ; and, in order to live, must be able to
actively respond in an adequate degree to the influences

K\~

THE FUNCTIONS OF ORGANISMS.

and circumstances of its environment. A crystal or
nugget of gold may lie passive for ages and yet preserve .
its existence unimpaired. Not so an organism. With it,
to cease to change is to cease to live, and if changes are
made by it which are out of harmony with the surrounding
circumstances (if, e.g., an antelope runs toward a lion instead '
of away from it) it will also cease to live. Similarly, when
an organism takes in food, there must go on, in order that
it may live and grow, a due adjustment of its internal
relations to the new influence brought to bear upon it.
Thus, every living creature has a unity, as shown by its
active powers, of a very different kind to that of any in-
organic body. It has an immanent spontaneity of action
on the occurrence of stimuli under due conditions. An_
inorganic body may be on^Jkind of substance, _but only^
a livine ors^anism can merit to be called an individual. .

In order, then, that s-wy living organism may preserve its incuiuLami

..... , outcome.

mtegnty, there must also go on withm it smiultaneous-— — ""^
changes of composition and decomposition, definite in
character and properly combined for the proposed end —
the preservation of its life. There must be a definite and
■conservative combination of simultaneous and successive
changes. The active processes of life which relate to the
,\'<y preservation of the individual, may be shortly described
^•as a double process of absorption and elimination — of
ncome and outcome. These words denote the extreme
I terms oTtHe^Hot!^!^ series of intermediate changes which
are necessary for the conservation of each individual or-
ganism's life. But all living creatures, normally consti-
tuted, have not only a faculty of maintaining their own
existence for a longer or shorter time, but they have also
a faculty for providing for the perpetuation of their kind,
and thus the fundamental powers of all organisms without j.
exceptiniv'rn.ay..Ja£-..said„to .^bg of two kinds— a power_of,
self-maintenance, and a power of reproduction. Moreover, V^
air living beings not only agree in that they (from man
down to the lowest fungus or alga) start in life as a minute
spheroidal mass of protoplasrn, but they also further agree
as to the general process by which they attain a complex,
adult condition, with distinct parts and organs — if they attain

y/

ON TRUTH.

such a condition at all. The process is one of budding
repeated in various ways, the buds themselves developing
and becoming metamorphosed. Whether the creature be
an oak-tree or a butterfly, the mature form is gradually
attained by minute outgrowths and separations, about
which more will shortly be said. Sooner or later the
double series of conservative changes which take place in
every living being cease to be carried on in perfect adjust-
ment ; and this inevitable defect also, in every case, sooner
or later culminates, and the death of the individual ensues —
such death being the natural end fatally predetermined

in the life-conditions of each kind of organism.
I . . .

^oHtaneom But sccing that every living being ceases sooner or

Water to live, and that every organic structure is latea to

become mere inorganic matter, ha\'c wo. any evidence.

ofthe existence of the contrary change-— the change, from
morganic, not-living substances into organic, living beings^
Now, as we shall shortly see, certain organisms — the great
majority of plants — have the power of building up living
organic matter directly from the inorganic world, but they
effect this by means of matter which is itself living and j
organic. The question, therefore, which remains is, ^qj^
1 iving b^in^^^anse_ without the help and interyention^ofj
creatures v/hich already live ? Three hundred years ago it ■
was the universally received opinion, that many of the
lower animals (such as certain flies, worms, and internal
parasites) arose without the intervention of a parent organ-
ism of any kind. But the discoveries which have one after
another been made concerning the life-history of such crea-
tures, have successively reduced the number of organisms
which might be supposed so to originate to a few of the
very simplest and minutest kinds. Even as regards these,
the patient and apparently exhaustive experiments of
Pasteur and others seem to have successfully refuted every
assertion of " spontaneous generation." Men of science
7\re- nnw ^rpnpfa11y agreed * that there is no trustworthy

(r ■

evidence oL_livIng. . creatures coming into existence save
Ibv the intervention of parental organisms. The spon-

* This agreement has largely been brought about by the invaluable labours
of M. Pasteur.

^^

]

THE FUNCTIONS OF ORGANISMS.

V/

^^

taneous evolution of living things from things devoid of
life, is contrary to all our experience. This constitutes
a final and decisive limitation between the two realms
of organic and inorganic nature so far as our knowledge
at present extends.

As was stated in the last chapter, all living creatures
save the unicellular ones, consist of aggregations of particles
of protoplasm, or cells, and such aggregations have powers
which exceed those of the several particles of protoplasm
which build them up. Thus z.ygl2imi^ by means of the
cilia of its component cells, has a more developed and
complex power of motion than has any one of the particles
which compose it. As we have seen to be the case with
man,t so the other multicellular organisms are formed of
tissues — that is, of aggregations of aggregations of particles
or " cells." In an earth-worm, an oyster, or a flowering plant,
the body is so composed. But just as a Volvox has powers
which exceed the properties of its component particles,
so each aggregate of particles, or cells, forming a " tissue,"
has powers which exceed the properties of its component
particles. \

Now, scientific experience. justices, -US- in affirming it , ^.o^rwturj
be an absolute law, that every structural difference which p/?'

iJUMC-

may exist between any two parts of a living being, is

(accompanied by some difference betweerj. the^v motdes .of

/actiYlty:. Cfuactions) of such two parts ; and every difference

^ between the modes of activity of different parts is also

accompanied by some corresponding difference in their

structure. Thus " structure " and " function " vary together, ilj

It follows that each tissue, having its own peculiar'
structure, has also its own special and peculiar function,
different from the functions of the other tissues. The
same consideration applies to each organ and each system
of organs wherever such distinctions exist— as we have
already found them to exist with respect to tissues, organs,
and system of organs of the human body.

I In the last chapter we have seen that there is a great Distinctions
difference between the structure of all animals above the anima/s
Protozoa and the immense majority of plants. We may
* See above, p. 321. + See above, p. 147.

and plants.

332 ^V ON TRUTH.

therefore expect to find that there are corresponding
functional differences.

The distinctions which exist between all the larger
and better known forms of plants and animals are, indeed,
so obvious that (in spite of the characters common to both,
which have been pointed out) the reader may think it
to be very easy to divide them as to their functions in
an absolute manner. For the activity of the animal
creation forces itself constantly upon our attention ; while
|plants, for the most part rooted to the soil, are obviously
■incapable of voluntary motion. Yet many plants, like the
sensitive plant, do make certain movements, in order to
disseminate their seed or their pollen, or under different
conditions of light — as tlie_J|ower_ of ...a,piia£ernel will shut ,
up under a clouded sky. Every one knows that different ^
flowers close at different hours, and thus Linnteus was able ^

"HI I iiii.m «nnM., .. V

to construct what was called "a floral clock." The move-
ments of tendrils are also well known. Again, many of
the lowest plants, such as Protococcus and various allied
forms, are actively locomotive — at least in certain stages
of their life-history, and the curious alga, Oscillatoria* is
in almost constant motion. On the other hand, many
Tunicates f are very inert, and the Sponges are apparently
motionless. The plants the motions of which are, for
several reasons, the most noteworthy, are the^j^n-dew
\JJJiZ£se7'a) and Venus's fly-trap {Dionaa^. The hairs of
the leavSTIj^'Or tRe'^rr^ew not only secrete a sticky fluid
by which an insect accidentally alighting is caught, but
they will gradually bend over such a captured insect, so
imprisoning it more effectually while bathing it in the fluid
the^distii When an insect alights on the leaf of Venus's
fly-trap, its contact causes the two plates of the leaf § to snap
sharply together and so imprison it, and the more the insect
struggles to escape, the more tightly the plates close upon
it till it is killed. The insect being dead, the blades of the
leaf again open and prepare to receive another victim. If,
however, the insect seized be very small (so that it is not

* See above, p. 321. It performs a series of alternate contractions pro-
ducing more or less rapid inflexions of the whole structure, like the bendings
of a worm or eel, and these inflexions may continue for days uninterruptedly.
t See above, pp. 318. \ See above, p. 321. § See above, loc. cit.

/

THE FUNCTIONS OF ORGANISMS. y^^^

worth the effort of holding and killing), the plant's grasp
is quickly relaxed, and its prey allowed to escape. There
is a very curious imitation of voluntary motion in the fruit J
stalks of the " mother-of-a-thousand " (J^inm-ia), which will
move about over a rock or wall till it comes to a suitable
depression or hollow, when it will plunge its fruit (capsule)
within it and there deposit its seed. We have, however, j
already seen that mere isolated particles of living protoplasm
have a certain power of motion when stimulated, and it is,
therefore, not so very surprising tnat a certain kind of
motility should exist in plants. But the special form of
motility which results from muscular contraction is only
found in the animal kingdom, for in no plant is there such
a thing as muscular tissue, and therefore the movements
of these vegetable organisms are essentially unlike the
movements, whether voluntary or involuntary, which we
observe in animals.

A more obvious functional distinction .is supplied us /V'r»?«/?w

, - . . _ • 1 1 1-1 of organic

on the ma.tter ot nutrition. Let any animal be supplied, matter.

"liowever abundantly, with all the constituent chemical
elements which go to form its body (either separately or
^ji^ arranged in whatever artificial combinations), such animal
must inevitably die of starvation, for it cannot build up
its own substance — cannot compensate for the wear and
tear of life — by any amount of inorganic matters alone.
It can only nourish itself when supplied with food con-
sisting of matter which forms or has formed part of a living j
creature. Therefore, no animal can live without feedii

_directly_ or indirectly^ upon gTanfsj, which do possess the
power of building up organic matter directly from the
inorganic world. They do this by means of their green
leaves, which, furnished with a substance termed c1\1oj:q-
phyll, have the power, jnsjun]igli.t^..oXa3.is.SiQlviag ..caxbQiTij c

3cid', retaining its carbon, and letting its oxygen...go free.
This is the opposite process to that already described as
respiration* — a process which takes place in all organisms,
whether plants or animals. Certain worms (some of those
known as Planarice) and some other animal organisms
more or less green in colour, can also dissolve carbonic

* See p. i6i.

334^

ON TRUTH.

il

acid as plants do, but this is by no means their exclusive
or chief mode of nutrition and growth. On the other hand,
the great group of Fungi, as well as certain parasitic plants
— such as the Dodder and Rafflesia * — are devoid of this
power, and need, as animals do, organic matter for their sus-
tentation. With these trifling exceptions, however, the
whole vegetable world, forests, grassy plains, sea-weeds
and mosses, and the green threads of every pond and
rivulet, are one and all continually engaged, during the . ^
hours of daylight, in tearing from the atmosphere its car-
bon and in absorbing moisture, in order to build up new ^
masses of organic substance from these purely inorganic \
materials. ■■

Again, plants do not receive solid nutriment into an
internal cavity, as almost all animals do. But there are
undoubted animals {e.g. the tape-worms) which have no
such cavity, but imbibe their nourishment directly through
the external surface of the body ; while there are un-
doubted plants — Drosera and DioncBa — which not only
catch insects but digest them (by means of a digestive
product they secrete) in a sort of temporary quasi-cavity.
In the case, also, of the pitcher plant {Nepenthes) insects
are caught and decomposed in its " pitchers," which are
permanent sacks, though they do not answer to the
digestive cavity of any animal^
Plants ^0 } Xbe last and most impoxtaut JaocJtigJml.di'gtijictjjOfi. Jas.;:^
'lot feel. ^^ t'Accn plauts and all undoubted anirnals relates to the faculty /
nf feeling. Animals, down_to and including, it is said,!
sponges, ha\'e some form of jnervQUS, tissue^ and, as we shall/
> sec, very commonly some organs of special sense. Animals
; are creatures which get their living by the help of their
senses, while plants are senseless ; and an animal may be
said to be an arrangement for carrying about, and for a time
perpetuating a plexus, or bundle, of sensations. Not only
will a worm or sTug shrink from any irritating object, but '
will by its contortions give signs of feeling pain which
(its nervous centres being uninjured) we have no reason
for otherwise interpreting. Most animals also can perceive

* A parasite of the Indian Archipelago, devoid of foliage leaves, but with a/)|<
flower~nme feet in circumference and we'ghing fifteen pounds. ||f

<

THE FUNCTIONS OF ORGANISMS. 335

objects more or less distant, and can appreciate sounds
and sights (if not also odours), as well as touches, by-
special sense-organs formed for such ends. There are
animals, indeed, which seem hardly to show any signs of
feeling, such as Hydatids.* They, however, are but crea-
tures in an imperfect stage of development, and no animals,
however high, exhibit evidences of sensitivity at a very
early period of their existence. Sponges also give little I
sign of possessing such a faculty, but then any nervous /
tissue they may have is of a most rudimentary and imperfect I
kind. On the other hand, there are plants the actions off
which might lead some persons to believe they had not j ^$^
only sensation, but even reason and will also. Amongst !
them may be enumerated Di'osera and Diojicea, especially
as regards the action by which the latter plant affords
to its useless and insignificant prey, a means of escape
by opening its leaf blades. Very curious also are the 1
methods by which the roots of plants seem to " feel," as
it were, after moisture,t and those by which tlie tendrils
of certain climbers seem to search for some fitting support
and, having found it, to cling to it by what might seem
a voluntary clasping, while they will avoid the stem of the
plant from which they spring, by actually raising themselves,
if need be, upright, to pass over it.| We may here again j
refer to the action of Linaria, which has the appearance I
of feeling for a cavity wherein to deposit its seeds.§^' '

* * Certain immature internal parasites.

/ t A sycamore tree at Penn, near Wolverhampton, sent down into a well
J to reach the water, a root forty-four feet long and about a quarter of an inch
^n diameter.

X The tendril of a passion-flower may sometimes be made to bend by the
pressure on it of a thread weighing no more than -jV of a grain, or by merely
touching it for a time with a twig. If, however, the twig be taken away
again at once, the tendril will then soon straighten itself. Yet neither the
contact of other tendrils of the same plant, nor the falling of raindrops, will
produce such bendings. The mistletoe as it germinates does not send its root-
like outgrowths downwards, but inwards into the supporting plant upon which it
is to live. Dutrochet showed that this special direction of growth was not due
to any merely physical attraction. He mounted the seed of a mistletoe upon
one extremity of a very delicately balanced needle, which would turn with the
slightest force, and he placed it at the distance of half a line from the surface
of a large cannon-ball. In germination the root-like outgrowth made directly
towards the ball, and soon came in contact with its surface. Nevertheless,
the end of the needle to which the seed was attached had not moved in the
slightest degree towards the ball, as it would have done if the action had been
due to an attraction such as that of gravity.
§ .See above, p. 333.

336 ON TRUTH.

In the case of feeling, however, as in the case of motion, \
whatever impressibiHty may exist, must be of a different/
kind from the sensitivity of animals, because it is thel
function of an essentially different kind of tissue. It is|
not an activity due to any form of nervous tissue, for none
exists in any plant. It is, therefore, only the outcome of
combinations of cellular and other vegetable tissues.

The functions, then, which minister to self-preservation

. W^ and reproduction are functions common to all organisms

yi \ — to plants as well as to animals — and they are therefore

/. \ino\^n diS, the vegetative fu7i£tio7is. The functions of muscular

motility and oFTenyitivity on the other hand, are functions

which pertain only to organisms which are undoubtedly

animals.

The consideration of all that concerns these animal
functions will be deferred to the next chapter, and what
remains of the present one will be devoted to a brief
notice of the functions common to all organisms, and
especially to reproduction and development.
AUmenia- The great function of nutrition (alimentation), as it is

carried on in man, has been already described.* It is
essentially the same in all undoubted animals, with the
exception of those parasites which imbibe their nourish-
ment through their external surface. In the Protozoa — as,
'for example, in Amoeba — particles of solid food are treated
as follows : the spot at which the animal touches such
a particle becomes depressed, the substance of the body
; around such depression then grows round it, meets, and
\ encloses it ; and the undigested residue is subsequently

i expelled at some temporary opening formed for the occa-
sion. The long and delicate pseud^podia t of many Protozoa
close round some particle of food, coalesce, draw it inwards,
and so engulph it in the creature's body. The nutrition
of plants is effected in a manner very different from that
of animals, but space cannot here be afforded for its
description.
Circulation, The great functions of circulation, respiration, and
Zfr%tou"' secretion are essentially the same in all organisms as in
"iufjionf' man, though the various modes in which those functions
* See above, p. 158. t See above, p. 320.

THE FUNCTIONS OF ORGANISMS.

Ov5

7 ^//

I / \

are efifected vary extremely, in harmony with the great
divergences as to structure which exist between different
groups of organisms. As to the function of reproduction,
a {q\n more words must be said.

We have ah"eady seen how in our own species not only
ordinary growth, but a reproduction of lost parts,* may
take place, involving remarkable organic adaptations and
noteworthy instances of correspondence between one part
and another. But the amount of reproduction of lost
parts which may take place in many of the lower animals
is far greater. Thus if the tail of a lizard be broken off it
will grow again. If it be longitudinally divided without
being removed, each divided half will complete itself, and
this process has been repeated till a lizard has been made
to carry sixteen such tails. The limbs of efts will also be
reproduced with their bones, muscles, blood-vessels, and
nerves. Even the eye and lower jaw have been seen to be
reproduced in the last-named animals, and one from which
the greater part of the head had been cut, was in the act of
rapidly reproducing it when the animal was accidentally
killed. The legs and claws of lobsters will similarly grow
again if torn off at their joints, though not if divided else-
where. If certain worms be cut in two, each half will
become a perf££t._^nimal^the_ head j)rpducing,.-a.ja^^
and the tail a new head, and a worm of the genus Nais
has been cut into as many as twenty^lBA^T^aFfr\^lTira*rike
result, tn higher animals, artificially separated parts often
continue for a time to exhibit a certain vitality. A tadpole's
tail cut off will for a short period continue its process of
development. A lizard's tail will move rapidly after being
separated. Frogs' amputated legs long continue to respond
to stimuli. The heart taken out also continues for a time
to beat, and after death different tissues continue for
different extents of time to show signs of vitality. But the
animalwhich. is.jperhaps the most remarkable for its power
of repairing injuries is the Hydra, almost any fragment^/
whicE win, under la vouraBTe" ctr'CTi'ffi'sTari'ces, grow into a
np^Y an^ entlTfi . J.llHTinl. This process, which excites our
surprise and admiration in the case of animals, is so familiar

* See above, p. 170.

b

^

338^// ON TRUTH.

to us in plants that no one thinks the formation of fresh
individuals by "cuttings " a matter of wonder, any more
than the expansion of buds into shoots, branches, or even
trees, like the banyan tree, capable of shelter^j::j^^j;e^giment
of soldiers^

But the buds of some plants become spontaneously
detached from the organism — as in tiger-lilies — and such
buds under favourable circumstances will grow and develop
into plants like those which bore them, and some of the
lower animals {e.g. the C(£lentera) also form outgrowths, or
"buds," which similarly become detached and grow up into
organisms like those from which they arose. Often these
outgrowths spontaneously detach themselves from their
source, as we see is the case in those plants that grow out
into branches called " suckers," which take root and then
separate, thus forming altogether new plants. The common
bramble will attach itself to the ground by the end of a
" shoot ; " rootlets coming to take the place of the incipient
leaves of the terminal bud of the shoot, and so give rise to
a fresh stem.

Thus reproduction may clearly be but a certain mode ;
of growth, as growth, of course, takes place by a reproduc-
tion of the component elements of the part which grows, j
"Growth " is. ".cflatiimoLis.xe^roduction," and " reproduction " I
is a form of growth which may thus be either " continuous "
or "discontinuous." Continuous reproduction occurs in
animals as well as plants, and thus it is that many coralj
auixBAk- grow up as arborescent structures or into large
masses leading to the formation of reefs and islands. Dis-
continuous growth may occur in many worms {e.g. Scyllis
and Catemila) which habitually divide themselves and so
multiply. Also in those green flies, Ap/iides, so common
on our pelargoniums and roses, a process of internal budding
will give rise continually to new individuals, without any
sexual process, as long as warmth and food are supplied.
Many Infusoria * habitually multiply by self-made sections,
that is, by spontaneous division or fission. But buds are
frequently formed so simple in structure as to each consist
of only a few, or even of a single cell, which buds, becoming

* See above, p. 320.

THE FUNCTIONS OF ORGANISMS. 339

detached, can grow and develop by themselves into large
structures or even into the parent form. Such are " spores "
which are given ofif in such multitudes from ferns, fungi,
algae, etc. A Grcgariiia will contract itself into a sphere
and then break up into a number of small bodies, each
of which gives rise to another Gregarina. Indeed, so
numerous and varied are such modes of reproduction, that
we may well wonder that any sexual process should be
ever necessary. There is a very curious reproductive pro-
cess, termed " rejuvenescence," in various lowly organisms.
In some Infusoria also two individuals will actually meet,
blend together, and become one. In plants, we are familiar
with the practice of "grafting," by which two plants also
become one. Parts of one animal may likewise be im-
planted in the body of another, and there live and grow,
becoming a part of its body. In the great majority of
animals and plants, however, reproduction is frequently or
invariably effected, not by mere discontinuous growth, or
by some internal change in the contents of a single cell,
but through the junction of certain distinct protoplasmic
particles, from the union of which a new individual arises in
a mode essentially similar to that already briefly described.*

The circuitous course pursued in the development of the Develop-
human embryo has been previously indicated,! and a more
or less similarly circuitous route is followed in the develop-
ment of almost all animals. We have also noted how the
course first taken by the great arteries in the human em-
bryo resembles their permanent course in fishes, as also
how the vi-sceral clefts transitorily present in it, resemble
the branchial openings permanently present in them.
These are but two instances of a multitude of analogous
facts ; for the embryos of higher animals for the most part
transitorily resemble, in their general features, the structure
of other animals lower in the scale. The series of forms
also through which the embryo of a higher animal passes
in its development (or ontogeny), successively resembles,
in a general way, a series of adult forms of other animals —
a series increasing in complexity of structure, and in resem-
blance to the adult condition of such higher animal. Thus I

* See above, p. 164. t See above, p. 171.

340 /y/ ON TRUTH.

\ the heart of a man is at first a single tube, as it is perma-
r\^ nently in A^j^^t^ians. His brain consists in its earh est stages

|N of a series of simple vesicles, roughly like the brain of a

^ lamprey. In a more advanced stage the human embryo is

. plainly the embryo of a mammal — being generally like the
\ embryos of all other mammals. Later on the embryos of I
men and apes are exceedingly alike, but differ from the /
embryos of other mammals ; and still later there can be /
no doubt but that the embryos of man and of anthropoid I
apes bear a very close resemblance to each other. Even '
at birth the infant's great toe is more widely separated
from"!^ others than in the adult man, and the body is
clothed with a hairy coating, the lanugo, as before noticed.* ,
These conditions exemplify a general law ; for it may be
said that the embryos of animals resemble each other the
more and the longer, according as their adult conditions are
the more alike. Before birth all mammals above marsu-
pials, are nourished in the uterus by the blood of the
mother through a structure termed a placenta^ formed in
essentially the same way, though in this respect the apes
/are the most like man. A placenta of a different type is
ifound in marsupials, but not in any other vertebrates save
i jlpertain sharks. After birth, ajQ_^mamraals are nourished
||llike the human infant by milk. Such a provision is found
l|pn no other group of animals whatever.
Heredity: In our thirteenth chapter we have already called atten-

tion to the familiar fact of the hereditary resemblance
which shows itself in successive human beings. This
heredity is common to all organisms, which always resemble
i more or less closely the organisms which begot them.
\ This is evidently a property not of the new individuals — the
I offspring — but of the parental forms. If any living creature
■ was self-impregnating, and the outcome of a long line of
self-impregnating predecessors, all existing in the midst of
one uniform and continuously unvarying environment, then
such a creature would evidently produce offspring completely
like itself The action of this law is modified by the diverse '
influences of parents and ancestors, as before pointed out in
the case of man.f As a rule, modifications accidentally or

* See above, p. 173. t See above, loc. cit.

THE FUNCTIONS OF ORGANISMS. 34 1

artificially induced in parents are not transmitted to their
offspring, as is well shown by the need of the repetition of
circumcision, and of pressure in Indian children's heads
and Chinese girls' feet in each generation. Yet there is
good evidence that such changes are occasionally inherited.
Guinea pigs which have become epileptic through a certain
mode of vivisection, have been known to have offspring
with a marked epileptic tendency. A female cat, the tail
of which had been injured, produced stump-tailed kittens
in two litters,* and a bull which had lost its tail by an
accident, has been said, by ^JX^'^'^^^-'H^-^^^^^- of Jena, to
have begotten tailless calves. Characters which depart
from the normal typT'oTa species or breed of animals, but
which are congenital, are far more likely to be inherited
than are those artificially induced. Such variations have
already been noted with respect to man ; f their occurrence
in other animals, together with the circumstances which may
be supposed to induce them, are matters the consideration
of which must be relegated to the last chapter of the present
section of this work.

___^ So^far it is clear that, not only by his bodily structure, Man and
but also b>' the functions of his body, man is a true 'c/r^amSms.

_ajnijTQa^. All the vegetative functions — -all the activities by
which the life of each human body is maintained (the func-
tions of outcome and income), and his species reproduced
(the function of generation) — are essentially the same as
those of other organisms, especially of other animals. It is
particularly to one group of animals — the group of apes —
that, by these bodily functions as well as b}^ his bodily
structure, he shows a marjvedly.P.tfi-'i'^fi^iii^'^t resemblance.
It remains to consider his relation to animals as regards
their higher functions or faculties.

* Sec " The Cat " (John Murray), p, 7. f See above, p. 173.

ON TRUTH.

A

a

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE ANIMAL FACULTIES.

The highest faculties of animals are different in kind from those of \
man. One distinct faculty (Instinct) which is but very slightly i
developed in him is very highly developed in many animals.

Movement andfeeling — Reflex action — Practical intelligence of animals
— Animal language — Animal stupidity — Animal ethics and taste
— Habit and instinct — histinct a separate faculty — A reflex
action of the individual.

^^faUng. The functions which are peculiar to the higher organisms
and are exhibited by all living creatures which possess
1 nervous and muscular tissue, are (as has been before said)
|those of movement and feeling. These two functions are
Idistinguislied as those of animal life, in contradistinction
'to the functions of nutrition and reproduction, which, being
possessed by all plants as well as animals^ are termed
jthe vegetative functions. That the animals with which
we are most familiar have feelings and emotions, and that
we can, to a considerable extent, tell what they are,
hardly any one will be disposed to deny. No reasonable
man who sees a dog frisk about with wagging tail and
cheerful bark, upon his master putting on his hat, can
doubt but that the dog has also seen the hat put on, and
is on that account excited by pleasurable, expectant feel-
ings. Strictly speaking, of course, no one can directly \
and with exactness know any feelings but his own, though
speech enables us to know that our fellow-men feel and
have the same faculties and the same endowments, sensitive
and intellectual, that we have. Animals cannot tell us in -

THE ANIMAL FACULTIES.

34;

words that they feel. Nevertheless, their mute expressions
are amply sufficient to assure the common sense of man-
kind that many animals — e.g. a dog, a monkey, a parrot,
or a frog — not only have feelings, but also, to a considerable
extent, what those feelings are — certainly that they can
see and hear.

But we have further grounds for believing thataaimals
feel and possess sensitive faculties, similar to our own ;
Tor ^ve have seen tliatTunction goes \vith structure, and
we know by consciousness and observation that while our
nervous system remains uninjured, diverse feelings attend
the application of diverse stimuli to it. Now, seeing that
birds, beasts, and other vertebrates have a nervous system
more or less closely resembling our ov\m, we may reasonably
conclude that, as long as their organization is unimpaired,
feelings more or less like ours will follow the application
to them of stimuli like those applied to our own bodies.
As to lower creatures, we find as we descend through the
series of animals, an increasing divergence, in the form of
their nervous system, and, on the wdiole, a decreasing
complexity and perfection in its structure. Nevertheless,
wherever we find eyes, we may conclude the creatures pos-
sessing them have some power of vision — if only a power
of distinguishing between light and darkness — and wherever
we find tactile organs, or appropriate movements (in un-
injured organisms) in response to various forms of contact,
we may conclude that there is also sensitivity. It is im- ■
possible to doubt, when watching a bee rifle a flower of itsj^
nectaTj^ that the insect not only sees the^'^ower but also
feels those parts of it which it so dexterously explores.
But we have already seen that, though other functions
are ministered to by the nervous system * besides sensation,
yet sensation is its especial function. We may therefore
safely conclude, wherever w^e find any living animal which
performs actions seeming to indicate the presence of sensa-
tion, and which has a nervous system intact and uninjured,
that such an animal really feels. Wt i^ay " "^'^^i n^ _ ^.l*^
uniniured.''_|;)^9cause the p'hep9rnfpa of fpflg?f artinn,f which /?cf«

* See above, p. 16S. t See above, p. 167.

4^

•ex
action.

344

ON TRUTH.

'^

gravely mjured,.show that we might, without such reserva-
tion, fall into error. But, indeed, our judgment that similar
stimuli prr)clucc in men and animals similar normal results,
is confirmed by the fact that essentially similar abnormal
results occur as a consequence of analogous injuries. In
animals the nervous centres of which have been injured,
reflex movements of the limbs will take place,similar to those
which will take place in human beings in like case. Many
animals, indeed, display reflex action in a much more sur-
prising manner — notably the,.irjOg, which deserves to be
called the animaj-martyr of science, from the constant
recourse which is had to it for physiological experimenta-
tion. Here it is evident that the stimulus is not the cause
of the reflex action, but only serves to elicit it from an
organism possessing a certain vitality and spontaneity.
The real cause is imrnanent in the mutilated organism
acted on. A frog which not only has had its nervous
"cenLreis 'injured, but has had its head cut off, will yet make
with its hind legs the most appropriate movements to
remove an object applied to the hinder part of its body.
If its skin be touched with some caustic fluid, a leg will be
quickly advanced and applied to the irritated part, and if
that leg be held, then the other leg will be moved and
similarly applied. But this is not all ; at the breeding
season the male frog tightly grasps the female behind her
arms, and, to enable him the more securely to maintain
his hold, a warty prominence is then developed on the
inner side of each of his hands. Now, if such a male frog
be taken, and not only decapitated, but the whole hinder
part of the body also removed, so that nothing remains
but the fragment of the trunk from which the two arms
with their nerves proceed, and if under these circumstances
the warty prominences be touched, the two arms will imme-
diately close together like a spring. Evidently, then, we
can arrive at no trustworthy conclusions except by obser-
vations with respect to animals the organization of which
is intact.
Practical That anlmals have not only special senses and general/

'o/a,ifvmh. sensitivity, but also much practical intelligence, is a facti

which no sane mind can doubt.

They show plainly enough i

THE ANIMAL FACULTIES.

545

that they;_ca.n thus appreciate (/.^. practically) very abstract__
matters^ such as motion, number, cause, solidity, etc., and
can attend to * and classify objects in various appropriate
categories according to their several properties. As to
motion, a cat which runs after a mouse, or even a pike
which overtakes and catches a small fish, shows by its
actions that it possesses a practical knowledge of what
motion is ; as does a dog which sciiiiies»k«i#tUy-©ut of the
reach of a stone thrown after it. A dog may also show
that it practically recognizes " number," when two friends
simultaneously call it in two different directions.

Not merely such a very highly-organized animal, how-
ever, but even an insect will discriminate between objects
which differ in number — between an attack by one enemy
on one side of it, and a simultaneous attack by two enemies,
one on either side of it ; between one object of pursuit and
several objects of pursuit — and will regulate its responsive
movements accordingly. A dog, startled at the agitation
by the wind of an expanded parasol lying near it on a
grass-plot, may, by its angry growl, show its apprehension
of some hidden, possibly hostile, cause of such motion ; and
it may show not only its appreciation of a cause, but of
causes of different orders, when the raising of a latch
may lead it first to display an excitement of expectation,
to be followed by discriminating gestures, according as he
who raises the latch may prove to be the dog's master, a
known visitor, or a suspicious-looking stranger.

An elephant will hesitate to cross a bridge it seems
to feel insecure, thus showing in one way that it has a
distinct and practical apprehension of the abstract quality,
" solidity^" as a hyaena making an extra effort to crush
a very hard bon'e, shows it in another way. Animals,
again, readily vary their conduct according to the pro-
perties of objects presented to their senses, i.e. they recog-
nize, draw practical inferences,t and, as before said, classify.
A cat will make use of visible characters as a basis of its
system of classification. A dog divides the material uni-
verse, organic and inorganic, into groups and sub-groups
according to a finely graduated series of smells.

* See above, pp. 95, 191, 192. f See above, pp. 94, 194, 195.

I

i

h\^// ON TRUTH.

Animals of the most varied kinds, from insects to apes,
will, as their actions prove, anticipate, from signs which
they recognize, the presence in objects of characters
and tendencies to action as yet unperceived. A monkey
will show a practical dread of the hurtful properties of
a viper, and a wasp, a similar appreciation of the luscious
sweetness hidden beneath the skin of the ripe fruit it
attacks. Insects, indeed, present us with wonderful pheno-i
mena ^f an Intelligent nature. Anisdisplav a complete'
and complex political organization, classes of beings socially i
distinct, war resulting in the capture' of slaves, and the!
^appropriation and maintenance of domestic animals (^///z'^^j-) j
analogous to our milk-giving cattle. Moreover, animals •
practically apprehend universals,* for a sheep does not
l^dread a particular wolf, but any wolf — "wolf in general."

Qaowe, then, attribute^to^ anmTals^ ^J^^\g^QSS,'S^i^^^,
as our own. But inferior in amou^t-T:7-aJikeJUi~kiiid,.aud,4iffer^^^
ing onlyln degree ? Before seeking a reply to this ques-
Tfon~rtlTTay*^''\A^ Tor the reader to carefully repe ruse the
fomte,g,Ql^h,,(j:tftp,tf:r_of tJl)'i'\WQrJ^ in order to realize _ho-W.ric;k
are the sensitive faculties, and how numg
are the practical cogiiitions possibleeven
the_exercise of intelJccL All those varied sensitive powers,
with the c()n-cs[jontling bodily activities, are unquestionably
possessed by the higher animals as well as by man ; and if
those animals do not possess the higher faculty of intellect,
then it may well be that, such sensitive faculties (having
the whole field of life, as it were, to themselves), may
energize more vividly and perfectly in animals than they
ican do in us where they are so commonly interfered with
yb3{_theaction oftheJj;it£lkj^. But some readers may be
'inclined to nnpatiently protest that animals are without
question highly intelligent, that many of them know their
homes, their friends, and their enemies ; that, therefore,
animals " know " % many things which we know, and that
though they have not the use of words, they must, at least,
have "ideas," and therefore a true intelligence. Now, most
certainly animals have " intelligence," "understanding," and

Ln man. without

* .See above, p. 206. + See above, p. 178.

J As to the various meanings of the word " know," see above, p. iS

THE ANIMAL FACULTIES.

fe^>

" knowledge," in the loose sense in which those terms are
popularly used. We should be very sorry to deny the
admirable and lovable endowments of the animal w^orld.
A man must have a very defective nature who does not
love his faithful brute companions. But we ought not to
allow affection, any more than hatred, to blind us and so
mislead our judgment, and, in considering the higher
faculties of such creatures as dogs and monkeys, there are i
_fouL rules which sjbiould be borne carefully in mind. These (v
are : — ^

1. To guard against the misleading tendency of our
emotions. The owners of pet animals are frequently

\^ ternpted to read in their actions meanings for which
thei-e is no real evidence, and to mistake imperfect infer-
ences, due to partiality, for real observations.

2. To guard against our besetting tendency to judge
^ everything_ by pur ^ownstaiidard, and without reason to

_^' imagine the existence of human qualities in beings which

are not human. This is the error of antJiroponiorpJiisui. I

3. Not to suppose that unknown causes are acting,
j^jw^hen known causes suffice to explain all the phenomena
.^•^observed. This is the old, well-known rule, called Occam's

R.^^Qj';." Rutia^uau^ljjit umltiplicanda pr(2te}' nccessitatemP
y" 4. To bear in mind thariT"any'cause7^i'3~Tre??t§t7^vTO
\V^ produce certain effects, we must not suppose the existence
of that cause when such effects are not to be discovered.

Now, we do not hesitate to affirm that there is no known
action of any brute animal which cannot be fully explained
by its possession of those merely sensitive faculties which t
have been enumerated under the head of " ourlower,
powers," * and the exercise of those co-ordinate actions
directed to avoid pain and follow up pleasure, which we
ourselves also possess, and which we know may act with-
out the co-operation of rational intelligence, because they
may so operate in our own case. For such action, it is
necessary, indeed, that the animal should sensibly cognize
external thiiigs, but it is not necessary that it shouT(31n-
tellectualTy perceive their being ; that it should feel itself
existing, but not recognize its existence; tliat it should

* See above, pp. 200, 201.

348///

ON TRUTH.

fr\

V

.\

feel relations.,hetiy.eeii- objects, -but not that it should appre-
hend them as relations ; that it should have reminiscence,
but not recollection ; that it should feel and express emo-
tions, but not itself advert to them ; that it should seek
the pleasurable, but not make the pleasurable its deliberate
ann,^-. True, or intellectual, intelligence, therefore, is not
(according to the third of the above rules) to be asserted
of animals, because their actions can be explained without
it, by the help of that sensitivity which the combined study
of anatomy and physiology shows us they do possess, and
which we also possess. Thus, the so-called " universals " of^
animals are not true universals, or intellectual ideas, but
answer only to our own sensuouSj generalized cognitions.^
But our fourth rule absolutely compels us to deny real
intelligence to brutes. For if they had capacities similar
to our higher mental powers, they would very soon make
us unmistakably aware that such was the case. If animals
could inform one another of facts they had observed,
and then act together truly in concert, very unpleasant
phenomena would soon make it impossible for us to deny
them true intelligence. A careful consideration, on the
other hand, of what the processes of mental abstraction
and judgment really are,t will, we think, make it impossible
for him who so considers those faculties, to attribute them
to brutes even of the highest order of mammals. The
movements and gesticulations of apes have a misleading
appearance, simply due to the fact that they can only move
their limbs and features according to the laws of their
construction ; and these are very like our own. Moreover,
not only does the form of their body and limbs induce
a resemblance of the kind, but the probable resemblance
which also exists between the minute structure of their
nervous centres and our own, renders it likely that they
exceptionally resemble us, not alone in their motions, but
in their feelings and in some of their emotions also. Such
resemblances, however, do not imply a resemblance as to
intellect.

The besetting tendency of many persons to exaggerate
the higher faculties of animals (their pets) has just been

* See above, p. IQI. f See above, from p. 211, to p. 215.

THE ANIMAL FACULTIES. 349

referred to, but a still stronger tendency to such exaggera-
tion besets many modern writers on account of a philoso-
phical prejudice. Because they do not see how man can
have come to have a faculty different in kind from that of
animals, they strain every point — exaggerate some facts
and ignore others — to show that he has no such different
faculty. But in science the first question is not how any-
thing exists or becomes, but whether it does exist or not,
as a fact. Mr. Chambers, Professor Bain, and the late
Mr. G. H. Lewes agree as to this tendency to exaggera-
tion, declaring it to be " nearly as impossible to acquire a \
knowledge of animals from anecdotes, as it would be \.o\\^h
obtain a knowledge of human nature from the narratives I "
of parental fondness and friendly partiality," and affirming;
that the researches of various eminent writers on animal 1
intelligence have been "biassed * by a secret desire to
[establish the identity of animal and human nature." All

[the actions of the most intelligent animal can be under- ,

[stood as results of powers like our lower mental faculties,

dthout. deliberation, px,GQ^.,S£iousness.^ For such action it

\i necessary, indeed, that the animal should (as before said)

sensibly cognize things, but not that it should intellectually

perceive their being ; that it should feel itself as existing,

but not recognize its existence ; that it should feel relations

between objects, but not that it should apprehend them ;

that it should remember, but not seek to recollect, or

know that what it remembers is passed ; that it should

feel and express emotions, but not recognize them ; that

it should seek what pleases it, but not that it should aim

at pleasure, or know that the pleasure which it feels is

pleasurable. By the exercise of such merely sensitive

faculties brutes can pursue an escaping prey, jump up

* To show the justice of such observations, two quotations may be given.
The first is from Dr. Bastian's work, "The Brain as an Organ of Mind,"
where, at p. 328, we read the following citation : "When Dr. Hermes left the
gorilla, on the previous Sunday, the latter showed the doctor his tongue,
clasped his hands, and squeezed the hand of the doctor as an indication, the
latter believtd, of his recovery." In the recently translated work of Professor
Biichner, entitled "Mind in Animals," we are gravely told (p. 249) of two
bees performing a sort of funeral ceremony. They are represented as flying
out of the hive, " carrying between them the corpse of a dead comrade," and
then, having found a suitable hole, they "carefully pushed in the dead body,
head foremost, and placed above it two small stones (!). They then watched
for about a minute before they flew away. '

\5o/f/

ON TRUTH.

<>

banks or rocks, or climb to attain what is otherwise out of
reach, pre pare, ...stakes for a dam.as.dQ^S— the beaver, or
employ a stone to cracic a hard nut as does the common
1 American ape, the sa2ai,2iJ, Actions such as these are
I performed to complete a harmony* which the imagination
I craves, owing to associations, previously effected, between
I groups of feelings and emotions, and groups of groups of
I such. A cat does not need to entertain any intellectual
knowledge or belief that the sound of clattering plates
means possible food, to obtain which it must make certain
movements. Quite independently of such belief, and by
virtue of mere sensuous association, the sound of the plates
is alone enough to give rise to such movements on the part
of the cat as have previously become associated with
pleasant sensations of taste. Let certain sensations, emo-
tions, and movements become associated, and then the
former need not be noted ; they only need to exist for
the association formed to produce its effects. When the
circumstances of any present case differ from those of some
previous experiences, but imperfectly resemble those of
many past experiences, parts of these and consequent
actions are irregularly suggested by the laws of re-
semblance, until some action is hit on which relieves pain
I or gives pleasure. ForJpsj;^£^.,iei.sdog be,.lQsi.ijjLi^
I mistress in a field in wiiich he has never been before. The
Ipresence of the group of sensations which we know to
J indicate his mistress is associated with pleasure and its
absence with pain. By past experience an association
has been formed between this feeling of pain and such
movements of the head as tend to recover some part of
that group, its recovery being again associated with move-
ments which, de facto, diminish the distance between the
dog and his mistress. The dog, therefore, pricks up his
ears, raises his head, and looks round. His mistress is
nowhere to be seen ; but at the corner of the field there is
visible a gate at the end of a lane which resembles a lane
in which she has been used to walk. An image of that
other lane, and of his mistress walking there, presents itself
to the imagination of the dog ; he runs to the present lane,

* See above, p. 200,

THE ANIMAL FACULTIES.

(P^/

a

but on getting into it she is not there. From the lane,
however, he can see a tree at the other side of which she
was wont to sit ; the same process is repeated, but she is
not to be found. Having arrived at the tree, he thence
finds his way home. ^Bj^,tli£^.actiQil^X_such..£e.eii,ogs, injagi;
V^iLQPJi^iiild ,9-ssociations, which we knovv, by, what, takes
place in man^jio exist, and „are ^try.e.. causes^ -alL. the. ap- „
^arentlyjntelligent actjong -of .aiii.mals may be explained
Avithout the need of calling in the help of a power (intellect),! ^
.the existence of which Jn animals is inconsistent with the I
phenomena they, as a whola, exhibit. The^'exprrise of thej
ighest faculties in animals may perhaps be -besi compared ,
witli"""S"reaming in man. The comparison is, however,
ecessarily inexact, because our intellect, acting in an
involuntary manner, so modifies our dreams that they
always must be different from any state of a being which
has no intellect at all. Nevertheless, our dreaming con-
dition may serve as an approximative, though inexact,
representation of the highest activity which exists in the
highest animals.

. There is one plain and obvious difference by which all. ^«//«a/
• kinds of animals differ from all races of men. Men speak^, ""^""^"'
1 but aiTrrTfaIs^'"are'dnmibr^'1§^ffi'e" readers, however, may be
inclined to reply that there are such things as dumb men,
and that many animals are eloquent with a language of
their own. The songs and calls of birds have meanings
which are practically understood by their fellows. Some
dogs will make certain facts — the presence of a rabbit or a
thief — known to their masters, and also indicate which of
the two it is by the kind of sound they make. Pointers
and setters, by their gestures, will make known other facts,
while parrots and jackdaws canj£arn actuajly J:q j'lpe^k
whole sentences. All this is very true, but it is nothing to
the point. "We have in our sixteenth chapter * abundantly ->
jfwe^elie:y£)- ^^^^wn .the dilTp'rpnff'fti'lIft£¥wgp|-i^^]g^^
intellectual language. We have also there pointed out

TT^nrrates

lave a truly intellectual language of gesture,
and that a mere inability to utter sounds through some
structural defect, no more proves a man not to be an essen-
* See above, p. 224.

352

ON TRUTH.

tially " speaking animal," than does the fact that another
\ individual cannot speak because he is gagged. No reason-
able man can deny the expressiveness of brute language,
but it is nevertheless fundamentally different in kind from
human language.^ Following up ah illustration before
given,* let us suppose that a brute and a man are standitig
under an oak-tree which begins to fall. The falling tree
will produce similar effects upon the senses of both man
and brute. Both will instinctively fly from the danger.
^- Both may cry out from alarm, and both, by their cries and
gestures, may give rise to similar feelings of alarm in other
men and brutes. In so doing both give expression to tl^fi.
lower kind of language — the, Lajiguage of emotion. It is
true that some brutes can articulate, and it is quite con-
ceivable that brutes might (though, as a fact, they do not)
so associate certain sensations and gratifications with
certain articulate sounds, as, in a certain sense, to speak.
That is to say, it is conceivable that a parrot might learn
to utter certain words which he has come to associate with
some gratification, ju